





-■'V'^^Vt 'V'' ^'-"':"-, 



lips- 






LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Shelf ....@.^^J 

UNITED STATES. OF AMEEICA. 



W' 



BY THE AUTHOR OR THIS V0LUM:E. 



VIOLKT LBK, 

AND OTHER POEMS. 

150 Pages. 12mo. F*rice, ^1.25, 



" These poems are the first published productions of one who 
evinces poetic talent of no ordinary degree. They show a deli- 
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and a sweetness of expression worthy of the masters of poetic 
2.xvr— Normal Monthly (Pa.). 

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book." — Watchman and Reflector (Boston). 

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York Evening Post. 

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style." — New Orleans Times. 

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to peace and beauty." — The Joiirnal (Philadelphia). 



J. B. LippiNCOTT Company, Publishers, 

PHILADELPHIA. 



BY THE AUTHOR OF THIS VOLUME. 



COME FOR ARBUTUS, 

AND OTHER WILD BLOOM. 

ISO Pages. 12nao. Price, $1.2S. 



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taste." — Louisville Commercial. 

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Haven yournal. 

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Herald. 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Publishers, Philadelphia. 



A BURIAL ODE 

FOR BAYARD TAYLOR. 



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grave was soothing to my unspeakable sorrow." — Marie Taylor. 

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* Published in ^^ Come for Arbutus," also separately with tnusic 



BY THE AUTHOR OF THIS VOLUME. 



Hope's Heart Bells. 

% Qual^er Storxf. 

282 Pages. 12mo. Price, $1.2S. 



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renders her work worthy of high praise." — Baltimore News. 

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" Mrs. Oberholtzer's novel has the same tender sentiments, 
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though present." — Monthly Review (Philadelphia). 

" Mrs. Oberholtzer has clustered together gems of thought in 
telling a most charming story of real life, which, while it com- 
mends itself to the young, at the same time endears itself to the 
middle-aged and old." — Local A^ezvs (Pa.). 

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story." — Boston Journal, 

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spect prosaic or preachy. Hope's sweet character illuminates the 
incidents, which are actual and vivid." — Phrenological Journal 
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" The author has enviable fame. Her work has had high com- 
mendation from many of the severest critics. The present novel 
has a most natural and agreeable style." — Progress (Philadelphia). 

" This is a sweet story of a quiet life in a Quaker community." 
— St. Louis Republica7i. 



PUBLISHERS, 



DAISIES OF VERSE. 



MRS. S. L. OTERHOLTZER, 

AUTHOR OF "violet LEe/' " COME FOR ARBUTUS," " HOPE'S HEART 
BELLS," ETC., ETC. 



33 




PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 
1886. 



75 2^4-s^ 
.04- J? ^ 



Copyright, 1886, by Mrs, S. L. Oberholizer. 



,<0- 



-'i^-.:'f^'lNTERSl |l|. 



THESE DAISIES, 

GATHERED AT WILL ALONG LIFE'S HIGHWAYS AND BY-WAYS, 

I HAVE GLADLY GARLANDED IN LEISURE HOURS 

FOR MY BEST FRIENDS. 

^SARA LOUISA OBERHOLTZER. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

A New Year on the Coast . . . , . . -9 

The Coal-Pickers 13 

A Bi-centennial Poem . . . . . . . -19 

The Rose of Thirteen 24 

A March Sonnet 26 

Beside our Soldiers' Graves ....... 27 

The Distant Burial . . . ~ 28 

Encouragement ......... 30 

Beside the Sea 32 

Exotics 3S 

The Girls' Echo 33 

An Interview with the Spring Wind 34 

A Cry for Sympathy 36 

Only the Kiln, Stranger 37 

My Creed 41 

The Human Riddle 41 

The Lunar Rainbow ........ 43 

The Woodman's Midnight 45 

The Fallen Waldren in May 48 

Hyacinths in Winter 49 

By an Humble Couch ........ 5° 

5 



6 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Gala Days . .51 

On the Beach 52 

Rosalie 53 

Indecision .......... 54 

An Indian Summer Rose ....... 55 

Valentines .......... 57 

The Organ-Grinder ........ 58 

Autumnal . • • • 59 

Beside a Lonely Grave ....... 60 

Bird Songs Translated ....... 63 

Sour Grapes (A Late Spring) ...... 66 

A Spring Idyl ......... 67 

Silver Wedding Lines . . . . . . . -67 

Never Now . . . . . . . . .69 

The Autumn Parable 71 

The Tulip-Wild 72 

Human Nature ......... 80 

April ........... 81 

A Laborer's Reply ........ 82 

The Centenarian '84 

A Gathering Edge of Storm ....... 85 

Fancy's Aftermath ........ 86 

The Absent 88 

The Flower of Kindness . . . . . . ' . 89 

My Boys 90 

Under the Lilac ......... 92 

Death's Door 93 

A Birthday Letter 94 

A Refusal 95 

Sixtv 96 



CONTENTS. 7 

* PAGE 

Awakened ......... 98 

December ......... 99 

"Who has Prayed for the Murderer? . ... . .100 

Keep the Bulkheads Closed 10 1 

Alice ........... 102 

To the Roses on my Bridal Veil . . . . .104 

A Winter Jingle . . . . . . . . 107 

A Sea Bauble 108 



Memoriams : 

Mother . 

In Memoriam . 

Another 

Mrs. Dr. John C. Lord 

A Tribute 

S. M. P. 

William H. Vanderbilt 

General W. S. Hancock 



III 

112 

"3 
114 

115 
116 
117 
118 



Hymns : 

Thy Will 119 

Jesus Loves the Lambs . . . . . . .120 

Many Mansions . . . . . . . .121 

Worms of the Dust 122 

Jesus Came . . . . . . . . .123 

Charity 124 

The Sabbath Milestone 125 

A Burial Hymn . . . . . . . .126 

The New Commandment 127 

Closer, Father 128 



8 CONTENTS. 

Decoration Hymns: 

PAGE 

Thanks foi- Decoration . . . . . . .129 

By the Ashes of our Altars . .' . . . .130 

We Remember Abram Lincoln . . . . -131 

For Children : 

Thoughtful Blue Bonnet 133 

The Pendulum 134 

Clover Bloom . . . . . . . -135 

The Climbing Duck 136 

Churning 138 

Polly Pipkins 139 

A Word to Boys ........ 140 

Visiting with a Kitten ....... 141 

The Violet's Song 143 

Push Along ......... 144 

The Little Hucksters 145 

King Pride ......... 147 

The Sky Woman ........ 149 

Sledding . . . . . . . . .150 

Stop and Think 151 



A NEW YEAR ON THE COAST. 

I STOOD beside the beautiful sea 
While the New Year rose with May-day glee. 
The air was soft as the breath of flowers, 
And the breakers sang of summer hours. 

The sea-gulls hovered or dipped at ease, 
Charmed by the waves' low symphonies ; 
The white sails lifted ; the eastern sky 
Drew back its blushes ; the sun rose high, 

And the New Year, fairly awake and grand, 
Looked proudly over the sea and land. 
"Where is the winter," he asked and smiled, 
" That ever waits to be reconciled? 

" Where is the snow the Old Year said 

I should find asleep on my lily bed ? 

The icicle-beard on the cedar trees 

The storm would twist till they sought their knees ? 

'' The winter wind I was warned to check? 
The sea-lashed vessels preserve from wreck ? 
And the frozen balls of crested spray 
With which I should pelt the holiday ? 



lO A NEW YEAR ON THE COAST. 

*'The world moves evenly, calm, and true. 
There's little or nothing for me to do. 
The ocean is peaceful and quite in place, 
The land looks up with a winsome face, 

*' And I wonder, indeed, Last Year should be 
So ready to abdicate for me ; 
That he talked of sorrow, of death, and cold. 
I'll weave for the earth a veil of gold." 

So the New Year threw out his warp so bright 
In the loom of morning. The woof was light 
And the sparkling gauze was woven at will, 
ShotHhrough with promise of daffodil. 

The ocean and land were veiled with gold, 
And the world was beautiful to behold. 
The New-Year sun in a mid-day sky 
Basked at ease in his throne on high. 

Then clouds crept under the glittering veil. 
A gust of wind and a dash of hail 
Broke the meshes ; and discords dire 
Rang from the strings of the storm-elf s lyre. 

The North Wind swept o'er the ocean blue 
And challenged the East, till tears he drew. 
Together they mocked the sparkling veil : 
*' A coat of beauty, but not of mail ! 

** We'll sing for the year a different tune, — 
For January is never June. 
We'll rock the sails of the pleasure-ships, 
And freeze the words on the sailors' lips. 



A NEW YEAR ON THE COAST. n 

*' We'll tangle the waves in rocks and sand, 
And whiten the cheeks of the smiling land. 
We'll trip the sea-gulls upon the wing, 
And thwart all visions of blossoming." 

The New Year sat on his throne of gold 
Close to the sun ; over sea and wold 
The darkness hung like a funeral pall. 
*' Old Year," he said, with a vigorous call, 

" Loan me your glasses ! I cannot see 
Into the world you have given me. 
I covered it soft with a golden veil ; 
Now it is black as a Hades jail. 

'* You have left, I fear, your rats and mice 
To gnaw the threads of my best device." 
The Old Year, never a word spoke he. 
Safe in the boundless eternity. 

But Time made answer, and slowly said, 
"Young man, you must learn to earn your bread. 
There are rats and mice that wait for you, 
And storms to riddle all gold veils through." 

"Of course, I looked for the storms you know, 
But I didn't expect them to come just so," 
The New Year answered with ready ease, 
" I thought they'd swing in the cedar trees. 

" And, close in the threads of my shining gold, 
I had woven a charm for days untold ; 
Rainbow prayers for a judgment good 
To treat the earth as a New Year should." 



5 A NEW YEAR ON THE COAST. 

" Well planned !" old Time replied, with a cheer ; 
''You'll be, I think, an acceptable year. 
Just make the best of each single day, 
Remembering none of them come to stay ; 

•'And don't complain when the ills you find 
That vanished years have left behind. 
Weave golden veils to your heart's content, 
Renewing the fabric whenever rent. 

" Come down from your seat beside the sun ! 
On the moving earth must your course be run. 
Do better work than the dear years past, 
That your name and honor increase and last." 

Then the New Year sprang from his glittering throne. 
The sun departed, — he stood alone. 
"In light and darkness I am," said he, 
" The year that is, and that is to be." 

The cold rain fell on the ocean's breast. 

The night-winds whistled nor sought their rest. 

I stood by the lashing, foaming sea, 

With the thoughtful New Year close to me. 



THE COAL-PICKERS. 

They hunger on the railroad track 
Where lines of coal-cars glisten, 

And for the fall of treasure black 
Industriously listen. 

They glean and gather, grab and keep 

The scraps of anthracite, 
That slip the collier's shovel deep, 

From early dawn till night. 

Old men and women, boys and girls, 
With bucket, bag, and basket. 

Quite force enough to house a car 
Should any dealer ask it ; 

A motley group of scavengers, 
Tired, flurried, or defensive, — 

We watch to find a wand that stirs 
Sweet mid the sounds offensive. 

We hear the jargon words and strife 

Of some unruly creatures 
Who want the whole (or peace in life), 

And see the woe-pinched features 

2* 



14 



THE COAL-PICKERS. 

That struggle paints and labor pales; 

The forms that nature slighted ; 
The faces, old before their time, 

That youth has not delighted. 

Dame Poverty's Red Riding-Hood 

Among the motley number 
Comes, scarlet cap and tattered gown, 

Two buckets to encumber. 

One is so wide the child might sleep 

Within it, if permitted ; 
Instead, her hand, so wee and soiled, 

Around the bail is fitted ; 

While on the other five-year arm 

A battered pail is swinging. 
She seems but a red -blossomed vine 

Frost-nipped, between them clinging. 

And yet her coming brings a hush 

Amid the imprecations. 
'* How's yer dad?" an old man grunts. 

" Yer goin' to warm the nations !" 

A lame boy calls in grudging voice 
And tone he means for joking, 

" Ne'er mind, ye tend yer own affairs, 
Er I'll give yer a choking !" 

A withered bunch of wires replies 
Whose mouth and eyes are human, 

"Yer mither tends yer fires at home," 
Added a stalwart woman. 



THE COAL-PICKERS. 

" You pick on, that's a lass ! now come !" 
The collier says, while throwing 

A shovelful of coal quite near 

Where Red Hood's dress is blowing. 

She sits upon a shining rail, 
The buckets rolled beside her ; 

Her wee soiled hands are on her face, 
She thinks of love denied her : 

Her mother whom the word recalled, 

A silent broken lily ; 
Her father sick, ill clad, forlorn. 

Beside the presence chilly ; 

The sorrow and the death at home, — 
The coldness of the weather, — 

She sobs, amid a rain of tears, 
*' I wish we'd die together !" 

The scavengers look up abashed, 

Half helpless at each other. 
*'I'm 'fraid the little gal 'ill freeze," 

The lame boy tells his brother. 

As awkwardly, with ill-clad foot. 

He sends his basket reeling. 
Scattering its contents near the girl. 

A generous heart revealing. 

" Cheer up. Red Hood !" a woman calls, 
"Yer fire 'ill burn the brightest. 

And when ye fill yer buckets up 
Ye'll find them not the lightest." 



1 6 THE COAL-PICKERS. 

But, little Red Hood lower droops, 
Till on the track she's lying. 

Her little hands upon her face, 

''Well, Where's the use o' crying?" 

An old man growls, and moves away 
To catch the bits that glisten. 

" 'Twon't feed our fires er warm her dad 
Fur us to stand an' listen." 

'' Here's for the lass !" the collier adds. 

''Stand up the buckets, fellows !" 
And in he throws as shining coals 

As any winter mellows. 

"That's for a nest-egg." He resumes 

His labor hard and steady, 
Turning neither right nor left, 

For time is lost already. 

A little later, as he goes 

To dump his cart o'ertopping, 

Red Riding-Hood still hugs her face, 
And yet her sobs are stopping. 

Her buckets full beside her sit. 

"A nuisance !" growls a gleaner ; 
" But if I hadn't helped a bit 

I b'lieve I'd a felt meaner." 

" An' next we've got to git her hum," 
Vouchsafes a wizzen creature, 

" Er she'll be kilt wi' cumin keers 
And need a grave an' preacher." 



THE COAL-PICKERS. 1 7 

Nobody answers. '' Can't ye move? 

Stir up, stir up here, lassie ! 
We've filled yer buckets, an' I think 

Yer sartain won't be sassy." 

'^ You're all so kind," says Red Hood low ; 

I doubt if many hear it. 
'' What's that she mutters, Jim ? Speak out ! 

Or good or bad don't fear it." 

'' She says you're all so kind." '' Hump ! hump !" 

The old man grunts, " no dosing ! 
We filled the buckets, now git home !" 

The generous hour is closing. 

" So kind." The child arises, bows, 

The tears still downward stealing 
To meet the smile upon her lips. 

Her sorrow half concealing. 

''God filled 'em up," in faith she lisps. 

'Tis onlj Jim who listens; 
The motley crowd who showed their heart 

Have turned where new coal glistens. 

'' I s'pose He'll carry 'em," mutters Jim, 

'' But guess He'll need a porter ! 
I'd better stop an' help the gal. 

Although I hadn't oughter." 

The little hands half washed by grief, 

Palms white with dappled backing. 
Reach out to catch the battered bails. 

''They're heavy. Red Hood, whacking !" 



,8 THE COAL-PICKERS. 

Vouchsafes lame Jim, who sees her strength 

Is as a breath beside them. 
"You'd better let me lug 'em in ; 

You go behind an' guide 'em." 

And so she guides them, while the street 
With limping pace he hobbles. 

" Now, Red Hood, can't you stay away 
From where the pickers gobbles?" 

He asks, half wondering, as we do 
When screening blossoms fairest, 

How we forbear to close at times 
Windows with scenery rarest. 

"You might git hurt," the boy explains ; 

"An' all the rough an' tumble 
Ain't meant fur gals as is like you, 

So little, good, an' humble." 

"You are so kind, an' you help God," 

The child replies demurely. 
"I jes help you," the boy returns. 

" But we must be there surely." 

He sets the buckets in by death, 

Anear the sick man weary. 
And hears, while shuffling quickly out, 

"I thought the time long, dearie." 

" But see the coal !" the child replies, 
Her parent's cheek caressing. 

" The Lord is good," the parent sighs ; 
" He'll give that boy His blessing." 



A BI-CENTENNIAL POEM. 

Perhaps the blessing o'ertook Jim ; 

Some rainbow lights are shining, 
About his soul and through his clothes 

Their seven-fold colors twining. 



19 



A BI-CENTENNIAL POEM. 

READ AT THE BI-CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF WILLIAM PENN'S 
LANDING IN CHESTER, PENNSYLVANIA, OCTOBER 22, 1882. 

The broad and placid Delaware glides on its outward 
way, 

To meet the vessels that anon come sailing up the Bay. 

Two hundred years ago, the same, its silvery ripples met 

The good ship Welcome and the Friends whose foot- 
steps halo yet 

Their landing place. The Autumn wood, though nearer 
then and dense. 

Waved with its banners, bright as now, salute of defer- 
ence. 

Calm Nature's pulse beats ever on to the same measure 
true; 

'Tis only we who come and go, meet, love, and bid 
adieu. 

Favored are we, whose ancestors paused here with 
William Penn, 

To see the soft October light fall on the place, as when 

They from the vessel reached the shore and thanked 
the living Lord 

That He unto the friends of peace such haven did 
accord. 



20 A BI-CENTENNIAL POEM. 

I see them now, through fancy's mist, upon the river's 
breast 

Lower their sails, and near the land with relief manifest. 

The mute thanksgiving of their souls I seem almost to feel, 

As land is reached and on the sward they press posses- 
sion's seal. 

It was then Chester, christened fair, assumed her Eng- 
lish name, 

At Penn's desire, when Pearson said he from that city 
came. 

And peace, transplanted, grew apace, philanthropy 
bloomed free. 

Unfolding and expanding fast within the Colony. 

The Friends in Pennsylvania had right of thought 
and speech ; 

No prison bars their spirits tried, but conscience 
wrought for each. 

They founded homes with altars wide, wherein the in- 
ward light 

Burned as love's incense, and illumed privation's 
darkest night. 

They founded temples plain of prayer, where words 
were sometimes given 

To lead the pilgrims, meeting there, closer to Christ 
and Heaven ; 

They blessed the State, which blessed again the stranger 
in its turn, 

They pushed the forest from the shore and bade the 
corn sojourn. 

Early, 'neath Shackamaxon's elm of shadows soft and 
brown, 

Good William Penn the fragrant piece of olive branch 
laid down. 



A BI-CENTENNIAL POEM. 21 

The Indian chiefs inhaled its breath, and each, with 

smiling face, 
Acknowledged friendship's covenant for the Algonquin 

race. 
The treaty, perfect in its bonds and wise in every 

clause, 
Was more effectually kept than any modern laws. 
The Algonquins loved William Penn and all his 

colony, 
Their better natures he unlocked with his great kind- 
ness key. 
For love is best and peace is safe whate'er we wish to 

gain. 
And balm is better cure for ill forevermore than pain. 
His ''Golden Rule" they understood through intel- 
lectual night. 
And kept the friendly promises close as a sacred 

right. 
Penn planned the city of his love, a "country towne 

and greene," 
Where the glad Schuylkill waters with the Delaware's 

convene. 
He left the garden-plots, the squares, which rest our 

eyes to-day 
As we walk down the pavements red of Philadelphia. 
Dear city, she with pageantry and pardonable pride 
Now celebrates her Patron's care through a vast human 

tide. 
The plain, the wise, the Christian man would scarcely 

know his own 
If he could see his fair " greene" towns their limits 

long outgrown. 

3 



22 A B I' CENTENNIAL POEM. 

His broad Sylvania's forests wide hemmed in by well- 
tilled fields 
To playtime patches, which no game from the late 

sportsman shields ; 
His land abloom with villages; his rivers glad and 

rills 
Low-voiced, their merriment gone out to quench the 

thirst of mills ; 
His people sown, as by the wind, about the broad 

domain, 
Not always marked by cut of coat, yet of religion 

plain ; 
His mountains broken in their height, tunnelled for ore 

or trade ; 
And far beneath the surface line the thud of miner's 

spade. 
The coal, the iron, the oil, and more, earth's jewels 

hidden then, 
Are burnished now and beautiful with light and warmth 

to men. 
Could the great founder of our State, whose memory 

we revere, 
Have foreseen these developments the day he landed 

here, 
His thanks to kindly Providence that, sailing perils 

o'er. 
He and his fellow-pilgrims were safely upon the 

shore, 
Had been e'en greater than they were, albeit, they 

were great, 
For in the Union arch I ween there is no richer State. 



A BI-CENTENNIAL POEM. 23 

And we, whose fathers came with Penn, take voice for 

them to-day, 
Feeling their thoughts within us live though they have 

passed away \ 
That thanks we give and prayers we breathe are sup- 
plement to theirs. 
Although two hundred years have slept safe in their 

silent lairs. 
The years must sleep as Winters come, and so it seems 

with men. 
We lose them in the snows of time to meet in Heaven 

again. 
Our gratitude for blessings great we thread on passing 

air, 
Dear Lord of hosts ! dear Lord of love ! our thanks 

are everywhere. 
We feel Thy watchfulness and care, Thy mercy when 

we err, 
Thy omnipresence, the rewards Thou dost administer. 
Our ancestors were safe with Thee, upon the ocean 

wide. 
Before the steamships ploughed the main or wrestled 

with the tide. 
Our love for Thee, our pride in them, we blend to- 
gether here. 
And thank Thee we are spared to see this Bi-Centen- 

nial year. 
O may our State grow worthier still of vast and full 

increase, 
'Till, all wrong thrown aside, she wears the rose of 

righteous peace ! 



THE ROSE OF THIRTEEN. 

The fair and beautiful angel 

Of Life, one autumn day, 
Gave us a blossom immortal, 

Set in the frailest clay. 

We cherished and watched it fondly, 
Through clouded months and clear, 

Our prayers the cords that held it. 
Two angels waited near. 

We felt the thrill of their presence, 
The angels of Life and Death, 

And feared the flower God loaned us 
Would vanish at a breath. 

But its opening leaves grew stronger, 

The autumns glad became. 
Till our blossom tall, expanding, 

Can full existence claim. 

The ''Red Riding-Hood" October 

Has vanished oft away, 
This one, our first-born darling, here 
Drops thy thirteenth birthday. 
24 



THE ROSE OF THIRTEEN, 25 

We give thee no gold nor honor, 

Chant thee no empty praise, 
We only bid thee remember 

The sweet and early ways. 

We cull thee a rose from the garden, 

Perfect in form and strong. 
Portraiture of unfoldings fair 

That to the earth belong. 

There's thought in the opening rosebud : 

Wait 'till it opens, dear. 
And speaks with its gold-lipped petals 

Unto thy inner ear. 

Wait till it tells thee, around it 
Were thorns and dust and leaves, 

That only by innate patience 
And power it bloom achieves. 

The world is of broken shadow ; 

The edges of storm and sun 
Will often wound and caress thee 

Before thy height is won. 

O let that height be purity ! 

Thy footsteps good to man, 
And in the end may some one be 

Glad that thy life began. 

'Tis not how much we hold, dear son, 

That counts as loss or gain. 
But what we give sheds light abroad 

To fall on us again. 
3* 



26 A MARCH SONNET. 

There's nothing really valuable 
But love, and good we do. 

Man comes but as a rose to bloom 
And fade from earthly view. 

The Lord smiles on the opening rose 
Christ lays His hand on thee : 

We kiss it down, and humbly pray 
From blight it keep thee free. 

loth mo. 5th, 1881. 



A MARCH SONNET. 

No cry shall pass unheeded, 

Howe'er small. 
Some ear, when it is needed. 

Hears us all. 

• 

The Winter snow, embracing 

Winter air. 
Is but the ermine facing 

Of life's prayer. 

Though we forget the roses 

Of last year. 
Time, ripe with warmth, discloses 

Colors clear. 



BESIDE OUR SOLDIERS' GRAVES. 27 

Nature throws back her wrapping 

Of white fur 
With March ; and hears the tapping, 

Close to her, 

Of unseen lives awaking. 

Slumber done. 
The light of bloom is breaking 

To the sun. 

No cry shall pass unheeded, 

Howe'er small. 
Some ear, when it is needed, 

Hears us all. 



BESIDE OUR SOLDIERS' GRAVES. 

Our marshalled hosts have gone 

To dreamless slumber. 
And we sing, '* Braves, sleep on ! 

Your graves we number 
And with fair bloom encumber." 

The rites of peace are ours ; 

'Twas you who crowned us. 
We give your memories flowers 

That blush around us ; 
A country's thanks for freedom's hours. 



28 THE DISTANT BURIAL. 

We know not what is best ; 

Watching and waiting, 
Here on the earth's warm breast, 

We are relating 
The olden lullaby of rest. 

'Tis thus we understand 
God's best bestowing. 

And recognize His hand 
The blossoms sowing 

Upon the stirred and pulsing land. 

It is not we who sing 

Of rest's perfection ; 
But echo answering 

With Heaven's inflection. 
Is God's own voice resounding. 

We are the instruments 

Of song and labor. 
In God's accomplishments ; 

The reed and sabre, 
Wherewith He rounds fulfilments. 

Decoration Day, 1885. 



THE DISTANT BURIAL. 

The kindly face, so dear to me, 

I see in death's embrace, 
And note the plate-laid casket frame. 

The white-lined satin space, 



THE DISTANT BURIAL. 29 

Wherein we shelter mortals 

For the galleries of earth ; 
And watch it lowered to the niche 

That waited since her birth, 

To hold the silent statue, 

Which He who fashioned knew 

Would need a place with kindred, 
When spirit flesh outgrew. 

I see, though lengthening miles away, 

The tears of mourners fall. 
And feel 'twould be a comfort slight 

If mine were on the pall. 

The dear old aunt ! my mother's aunt, 

So tender, warm, and true. 
Whose words of love fell on me oft, 

As sweet, refreshing dew. 

Who lived a life of love and home. 

Of blessed self-content. 
To whom the household stars were more 

Than outside firmament. 

Who held through fully-ripened years 

A true religious sense 
Of conscious duty, wrought with most 

Unconscious excellence. 

Hers was a peaceful morn, and yet 

A not unclouded day. 
For the Lord's flower-gatherer took 

Some of her blooms away. 



30 



ENCO URA GEMENT. 

All through the evening hours of calm 
She held their memories sweet. 

Dear aunt, she stoops to kiss them now, 
Close to the Saviour's feet. 

These loans God makes of placid lives, 
Whose lights are perfect love, 

Illuminate our darker ways 
With brightness from above. 

They give us satisfying proof 

That peace, the breath of Heaven, 

Is wafted down in human souls, 
And love is earth's best leaven. 



ENCOURAGEMENT. 

Whatever tends to crush out wrong 
And decrease sin and sinning, 

God and His angels smile upon 
As in the world's beginning. 

'Tis we who fail, and not God's plans 

For full regeneration. 
'Tis idle hearts and idle hands 

That vilify the nation. 

We all know better than we do. 

We think to act to-morrow, 
'Till lo I the sunny days are past, 

And night is dark with sorrow. 



ENCO URA CEMENT. 

'Tis our to-days the cause requires. 

The wheel of fate is turning ; 
And we, to guide its motion right, 

Must be alert, discerning. 

It is not luck, but human skill. 
Which bends it back or forward. 

A steady hand and heart and will 
Incline the leverage starward. 

Good nature is the common oil 

Required in every movement ; 
It lightens motion, stirs the cogs. 

And hastens all improvement. 

Never moan idly by a wheel 

Considered dead to action, 
But oil and push, and oil again. 

At last, with satisfaction, 

You'll hear it moan and swag and turn 

With natural locomotion. 
The world will say, " It ran itself;" 

Perhaps deny you potion 

Of rightful praise ; but wherefore care 

If you but keep it jogging? 
There's He who marks the hearts and hands 

That hinder wheels from clogging. 

And if the cause of right achieve 

A notch by your endeavor, 
While other hands are trained to push, 

Your efforts live forever. 



31 



32 



BESIDE THE SEA. 

Fame is a flower that withers oft, 
And gold's chained to her mother. 

No wings uplift a rising soul 
As kindness done another. 



BESIDE THE SEA. 

We stood by the sea, my love and I, 
When the waves beat high and strong. 

We stood by the sea, my love and I, 
When the beach looked wide and long. 

Our hearts beat high if the tide was in. 

And high if the tide was out ; 
We were together and knew God's hand 

Encompassed the sea about. 

We stood together, my love and I, 
When the dunes upon the shore 

Were hushed to rest by a whispering breeze 
We thought would shout no more. 

Then we saw them waked by an angry wind. 

And scattered so far and wide ; 
The countless sands and the nameless sands 

At the beck of a fitful tide. 

Together, together, my love and I, 
Stood firm, and we stand to-day ; 

The tides may waver, the dunes may shift. 
My love is my love for aye. 



EXOTICS. 

The fair and rare exotics 
Beneath the hot-house pane 

Feel not the wind's caressing, 
Or sweetness of the rain ; 

Know not the dews delightful 
Of violets in the lane. 

Smooth-breasted as flamingoes, 
And warm with southern dyes, 

Azalias, rhododendrons, 
Camellias lift their eyes. 

My own half pitying meet them. 
And thought to wild bloom flies. 



THE GIRLS' ECHO 

OF OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES'S " LOVING-CUF SONG." 

How sweet the summer long ago 
That kissed you with its blossom snow 
And gave you perfect bloom, dear boys ! 
4 33 



34 



AN INTERVIEW WITH THE SPRING WIND. 

How fresh each rose and pink appears, 
Immortal with the dew of years, 
Emitting love's perfume, dear boys ! 
Emitting love's perfume. 

We girls, whom slumber held too long 
For blossom shower or blue-bird song, 

Enjoy them both through you, dear boys. 
The lilac crowns of our delight 
We reach, on tiptoe, to the white 

That marks you tried and true, dear boys. 
That marks you tried and true. 

The rusty scythe of Time we'll sheathe, 
While you with pink and rose-bud breathe. 

And quaff the loving cup, dear boys. 
Glad, if our precious Lord agrees, 
To go instead, when He may please 

To call you softly up, dear boys, 
To call you softly up. 



AN INTERVIEW WITH THE SPRING 
WIND. 

Combing out the gold-brown tresses 

Of the mosses 
I met the Air, that each year blesses 
Some hope renewed, and kindly presses 

Down the crosses. 



AN INTER VIE W WITH THE SPRING WIND. 

And of the Air I questioned, smiling 

At our meeting, 
^' What are you, gentle Wind, beguiling, 
With voice and bloom so reconciling 

And entreating?" 

With her long comb the Wind proceeded 

To card the mosses ; 
Sort out the tangles, that impeded. 
With liberal hand, I as unheeded 

As the losses. 

" You waste the good and bad together," 

I persisted ; 
*' Rake bud and bramble from the heather ; 
The brush of Summer best knows whether 

Strands are twisted." 

The Wind her face, in ire and wonder, 

Now uplifted ; 
She snapped her pretty comb asunder 
And screamed, ''Alack, how men will blunder ! 

You're not gifted !" 



35 



A CRY FOR SYMPATHY. 

The world is a beautiful place indeed 
When one of heart sympathy has no need, 
Then the smiles and frowns which pass us by 
Are as stars or clouds in a far-off sky. 
But when sorrow falls with its weight to crush 
A sensitive soul, there comes a hush, 
And our quickened senses more closely note 
The visions and sounds which seem less remoje : 
The discords jar, and the rough blasts chill ; 
The wheels grow heavy of destiny's mill, 
While the grist in the hopper, sinking slow 
To the jaws of the ponderous stones below, 
Loses the gloss of the golden grain. 
And is ground to flour with a moan of pain. 
The streamlet, that used to dance and play 
Through the meadow-land, has lain joy away 
As a bridal veil, and weak with tears. 
Can scarcely turn in her bed of years. 
The hours of the morning, the noon and night, 
Are not illumed by the olden light; 
For no one pauses to see that we 
Are down in the harness, or set us free. 
Our hearts grow weary of vain essays 
To time their throbs to the passer's gaze ; 
Our quivering lips can scarce beguile 
To their storm-beat petals the olden smile. 
36 



ONLY THE KILN, STRANGER. 37 

Perchance through the daylight we bravely keep 
Back sorrow's torrent, but when we sleep 
The flood-gates open, the soul outcries, 
And the clamorous waters unseal our eyes. 
We seem to be drowned, but strand at last 
On a rift of daybreak, and anchored fast 
By labor and will, for another round 
Of mid-day struggle are equal found. 

Ah, ye who have never known sorrow's sting, 
Or felt the ache of a broken wing ; 
Who have never kept a torrent of tears 
Prisoned till night ! God bless you, dears ! 
God bless you, and keep you forever free 
From a sensitive nature's misery ! 
Teach you to scatter your peace as flowers 
Of loving-kindness through darksome hours. 

The roses of life are sweet, so sweet ! 

We catch their breath, though at sorrow's feet. 

Our quickened senses untaught can tell 

With whom they opened, from whom they fell. 



ONLY THE KILN, STRANGER. 

There's a stranger's foot on the threshold, 
And a stranger's voice on the air; 

A stranger's smile at the window, 
And a stranger's child on the stair. 
4* 



38 ONLY THE KILN, STRANGER. 

Our lease on the sylvan shade over, 

The house where light came to me first 

Tangles the rainbows for strangers 
And beckons their blossoms to burst. 

The vines that trail over the arbors 
Laugh out with the spring, unaware 

Of Time's hypocritical changes, 

And that they will miss the long care. 

I know it is old ! well it might be, 
Having stood sixty years in the name. 

And spread from one broad-rooted house-tree 
To grouping the mosses now claim. 

But a stranger, reckless of mosses 
And reckless of memories sweet, 

Bares the roots of the trees for redressing. 
And renders the group incomplete. 

Changing the aspect and colors, 
Transforming the uses of each ; — 

'Tis a blessing at once and a sorrow 
Inanimate nature lacks speech. 

Else would the ware rooms converted 
To kennels for horses and kine, 

Groan out with a longing aesthetic. 
For pottery, line upon line. 

Which faced and crowded their stories, 
With blossoms of amber and wine ; 

And the shop with its merry wheels broken. 
Chant dirges of culture's decline. 



ONLY THE KILN, STRANGER. 39 

The clay mills are ghosts of the brightness, 

The kiln, of round masonry firm, 
Stands stolid and grim in the silence, 

As serving a banishment term. 

It was there we roasted the chestnuts-, 
And ears of the brown silken corn ; 

And there our dear father fed fire-light 
At intervals, eve, noon, and morn. 

There can be naught nearer and dearer 

To me, in the home we outgrew. 
Than the old kiln, hugging its silence, 

That then whistled flame from each flue. 

It was there I crept to my father 

Before I had found strength of limb ; 

And there of his nine, though the eldest, 
I still seemed the baby to him. 

The wings of the kiln have been crippled. 

For useful is lumber to men ; 
But leave the sound masonry, stranger. 

So filled with the memories of then ! 

The apple- and cherry-trees lower ; 

Reset the stray fences and vines. 
Time's hand has lain heavily on them ; — 

The past to the future resigns. 

Curtail the old number of buildings. 
For we death and distance have kissed 

Until of the flock I but linger 
To care what is taken or missed. 



40 ONLY THE KILN, STRANGER. 

I ask but this monument, stranger, 
This round tower gray of our trade, 

That sits as of old by the roadside 
In the arms of the tall hickory shade. 

The dwellings may crumble or brighten 
As best pleases you and grim Time, 

But spare the old kiln, I beseech you. 
Where we and the smoke used to climb ! 

The setting, the smoking, the burning. 
The cooling, when up through the air, 

The rays sprang, seeking their level, 
As swift as the breath of a prayer, 

I see, and the mid-years forgotten, 
The door of the kiln is unsealed, 

The slugs and the tiles of protection 
Removed, and the new ware revealed. 

Ah ! then, it is carried and carried. 
As colors and blossoms of wine. 

And placed on the long shelves for market, - 
Did ever such earthenware shine ? 

The days of my people are over. 
And I am their remnant of clay ; 

So leave the round monument, stranger. 
Until I have passed on God's way. 



MY CREED. 

Although I mourn that sin walks free, 

That beauty is misshapen, 
While some gnarled limbs mark every tree, 

And right's for wrong mistaken, 

I cannot feel the plan is God's, 
That He, from the beginning, 

Intended us to merit rods 
And take delight in sinning; 

I only understand His love. 

His mercy overgrowing 
Our broken efforts ; see Him, dove 

And olive branch bestowing. 



THE HUMAN RIDDLE. 

No man can fully know his brother, 
Or well interpret for another. 

And why? Because I've late discerned 
Scarce any man himself has learned. 

41 



42 



THE HUMAN RIDDLE. 

We know our childhood when 'tis done, 
The way to victories we have won ; 

The little threads of circumstance, 
That gave us hindrance or advance ; 

Our fond ambitions of a day, 

The potter's unformed vase of clay; 

Our broken moulds, whose depths within 
We kept for thoughts exempt from sin. 

We know our failures ; possibly 
A few of us least blind may see 

Our faults. We cannot comprehend 
Our capabilities, or bend 

Our best emotions to a plane 
Unchangeable. The sun and rain, 

The wear of sorrow and delight. 
Affect us each at different height ; 

And as our souls increase in strength, 
Endurance reaches greater length. 

Man fails to fathom his own mind. 
Which is a riddle undefined. 

And can but vainly hope to read 
The impulse of another's deed. 



THE LUNAR RAINBOW. 43 

Self-Study in the motive line, 
Is better than outside design, 

For he who so knows his own as pure. 
Will find his fellow's less obscure. 



THE LUNAR RAINBOW. 

On the sea the mist lay lightly, 
Veiling fair and things unsightly 
From our view. 

As a mid-air dew, the vapors 
Drape about our evening tapers 
Clouds of blue. 

We are short of sight ; enveloped 
In a film the night developed, 
Beauty blind. 

And the sky has gathered round us 
With her ashen cords, and bound us 
From our kind. 

We can hear the sea-waves breaking ; 
Feel the beads of mist shape taking 
In our hair ; 



44 THE LUNAR RAINBOW, 

Catch the dune deeps on our sandals ; 
Chase the crab-faced border vandals 
Unaware. 

Turn we from the night a minute, 
And the darkness that is in it, 
Unto friends. 

There the gas-jets flame and glisten, 
Laughingly we talk and listen ; — 
Time distends, 

And our minute, like a lover's, 
Soon a half-hour sweetly covers, 
Then we rise. 

Lo ! the mists of night are lifted, 

And the moon with fulness gifted 

Rides the skies. 

She, the queen of transformation. 
Bends the bow of reformation 
In the west ; 

And from out her haloed quiver 
Takes the arrow, which the Giver 
Marks as best. 

Silver, and with promise pointed. 
Sends it, flashing light anointed. 
Through the air. 

At the lunar rainbow's motion 

Beauty wakes upon the ocean. 

Saintly fair. 



THE WOODMAN'S MIDNIGHT. 

The night is white, and the night is cold. 
Gray silence her midnight bell has tolled. 
The wind, an oft unwelcome guest, 
Has locked her passions in her breast, 
And rests at ease beneath the trees. 

No buttercups in the earth or sky. 

Only the white mists low or high. 

No lark, devoid of compass, crosses 

My lighted pane ; mistaking mosses 

Of shroud-like snow for wild flowers' blow. 

God's bloom and His birds are all asleep. 
Naught but a dream to-night may creep 
Under or over the snow so white ; 
The snow so deep, and the snow so light, 
The snow so still guarding the hill. 

Within and without the stillness reigns. 
Vainly I bear on the icy chains j 
And stir the logs in the chimney small. 
Till the shadows dance upon the wall. 
Each spike of flame traces her name. 

5 45 



46 THE WOODMAN'S MIDNIGHT. 

The room seems empty : a vague unrest 
Pervades the silence and fills my breast. 
The room seems narrow : the white and gray 
Drift in the corners, nor melt away 
At touch of life. My wife ! my wife ! 

I lift the latch of the door so low ; 

Into our other apartment go, 

To see my darlings in sweet repose. 

Three little sleepers, how sweet God knows. 

Dream together the winter weather. 

Matilda, Howard, and bonny Bess 
Cuddled together in sleep's caress. 
Tangled tresses of chestnut hues 
Shade the pillow in wealth profuse. 
And wee hands toss the golden floss ; 

For our baby Bess is half awake. 

Some troublous dream her slumbers break. 

She sobs and turns, and a moment more 

Is sleeping as soundly as before. 

Rest peacefully, my babies three ! 

Your mother's hand, like a fallen rose 
Of slender petals, lies on the clothes 
Of the pallid bed, on the other side 
Of the chamber, neither high nor wide ; 
Within the reach of her buds each. 

The lily of death on wings of snow 

Was borne to us with the morning's glow. 



THE WOODMAN'S MIDNIGHT. 

She, with it softly against her cheek, 

Smiles serenely but will not speak 

To waiting cares, though shrined in prayers. 

The feet so willing, the lips so free, 
Lost, with the lily, sweet motion's key. 
The heart, that thrilled at our faintest word, 
Is now by our mournful wail unstirred, 
And cannot wake, though ours may break. 

I reach and listen ; no sound is near, 
Save the breath-beats of our children dear; 
That seemed to us, together, the best 
Of human music for human rest. 
But which alone falls as a moan, 

The pitying crying, the hopeless need 
Of unfledged birds, whom none may lead, 
With mother wisdom, to try their wings, 
And soar, at last, when gladness clings 
As beads of dew to fringed clouds blue. 

Matilda, Howard, and bonny Bess, 
Cuddled together in sleep's caress, 
The dear Lord bless you, and comfort me! 
The way is trackless, I cannot see 
Where weary feet a path may meet. 

Yet He who watches the sparrow's fall. 
And lifts with Spring earth's funeral pall, 
Mayhap will a footway break for me 
Wherein to guide my motherless three, 
And some light find who now am blind. 



47 



THE FALLEN WALDREN IN MAY. 

Rich and ripe keepsake of Autumn, 

Blushing yet haloed with gold ! 
Souvenir most perfect of fruitage, 

Remnant of barrels we've sold ! 
Fragrant and round as October, 

Past the long Winter you've bowled 
Safe into May, and the blossoms 

Meet you when snowing the wold. 

Satin your cheek and unwrinkled, 

Perfect your stem deep and straight. 
Queen of the orchard, reviewing 

The realm of your smiling estate ! 
Eve-like, I smooth your bright garment. 

Kiss you, and then hesitate ; — 
Longing, yet fearing, to claim you 

Lest my Eden too have a gate. 



48 



HYACINTHS IN WINTER. 

Ye perfumed miracles of Spring ! 

Why breathe this month of snow? 
My thoughts outreaching to you cling 

About the window low, 
Where I have prisoned you, dear flowers, 

And you have wondering seen 
The narrow light of winter hours 

Upon your swords of green. 

Fringed bells of odor ! perfect shades 

Of summer hues you hold ; 
And ring your fragrant serenades 

Through February cold. 
Together housed, through wind and storm. 

Hyacinths, you and I 
May safely trust ; our hearts are warm, 

Our sun is in the sky. 



49 



BY AN HUMBLE COUCH. 

I TAKE between my softer palms 
The dear hands hard with toil ; 

I smooth the ridged worn finger-nails, 
And brush some specks of soil 

From the old-fashioned coverlet 
That shields the slender form 

Of the tired laborer, whose heart 
Cannot yet long be warm. 

Within her narrow bosom throbs 

A loving, generous soul, 
Ever alert to kindly thought 

And purity's control. 

Unknown to learning. What are books ? 

I ask with tear-blind eyes, 
Kissing the friend I fain would keep 

Still longer from the skies. 

They are but shadows, and, though set 

In loveliest rainbow hues, 
Are powerless as defence in storm. 
Or veil against death's dews. 
50 



THE GALA DAYS. 51 

Learned or unlearned, shod, silken hose, 

Or with our torn feet bare, 
In earth's wine-press of suffering 

Alike we tread our share. 

No breadth of understanding wide, 

No narrow gauge of feet. 
Exempts us from our turn to press 

Life's dregs, when life's complete. 

The wild rose blooms as does the tea, 

As sweet its odorous breath. 
The pink leaves and the creamy fall 

Alike at touch of death. 

And I half question, lingering here 

Beside this couch of pain. 
Whether contentment hath not worth 

Beyond ambition's gain. 



THE GALA DAYS. 

SEPARATING CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR. 

The Violet held her breath long ago 
That the full Rose of Summer smile and blow. 
The Sweet Rose, chastened by the Golden-Rod, 
Wept all her petals on the Autumn sod. 



g2 ON THE BEACH. 

Then Winter's-Herald pushed with heavy hand 
Aside the Rod, assuming all command ; 
Bleaching the year's bright colors out with snow, 
A purification for the soft glow 
That marks the dawn of Christmas, Christmas fair. 

The Pine and Holly wreathe with eager care 
Garlands for Winter. The Responsive Breeze 
Touches the harp-strings of a thousand trees. 
And chants the ritual of gala days. 
Glad gala days ! the parting of the ways. 
Glorious gala days of perfect joy. 
In which the passing bells fond tones employ 
To reconcile the Old Year to the New, 
And blend with exultation fond adieu ! 

The violets, roses, and the golden-rod 

Are in a folded letter on the sod ; 

Bearing the cross of Christmas, waiting seal 

Of the Inevitable to conceal 

Their brightness from the fresh white-sandalled Year, 

The stars caress, and Bethlehem lingers here. 



ON THE BEACH. 

The waves dash in, and the waves roll out. 
They toss, they tumble and frisk about. 
The sea is broad and long and wide, 
We on the beach note but its tide ; 



ROSALIE, 53 

The ermine edge in its rise and fall 
Fringing the sand ; a mermaid's shawl, 
Losing its pendants of shells and pearls 
On the silvery line where sea-weed curls ; 

Note but the billows' broad expanse 
Beyond, where the white-winged vessels dance ; 
The restless pulse of a power sublime 
That heeds no season and knows no time. 

We reach for the snowy flakes that yearn 
For the undercurrent's backward turn. 
And catch but a breath of saline air, 
While a wave runs out to sing '' beware !" 

Break on, O sea of the ages past ! 
Our thoughts you anchor and bind them fast ; 
While you are deaf and blind that we, 
Mites of a day, are your lovers, sea ! 



ROSALIE. 



Dovi^N where the cedars stoop to the lea ; 
Down where the meadows look to the sea ; 
Down where the breakers laugh in their glee. 
Stands on the white sand sweet Rosalie. 

Pure as a snow-flake her robe of white ; 
One pale day lily her wand so slight ; 
Watching the ocean lose stands of light, 
"Boatman," she whispers, "come! it is night." 



54 



INDECISION. 

No boatman listens, sea-gull and tern 
Swing where the embers of sunset burn. 
Sandpipers only watch, wait, and yearn 
Over the wave's hem with like concern. 

Rosalie heeds not sandpipers near, 
Only the distance seems to her clear. 
Out where the shadows stoop and appear 
Notes she a dim sail rise and career. 

There, with her blue eyes shaded of hand. 
Long in the twilight looks she from land. 
Sandpipers guarding close on the strand 
Detect a footfall, lift wings, disband. 

Far in the distance through the gray air 
Lingers the white sail, while unaware 
A step is nearing, answer to prayer, — 
Rosalie's lover stands by her there. 



INDECISION. 

A MAID I knew had lovers two, 
And both were quite respected ; 

But to decide to be the bride 
Of one, left one neglected. 

And so she hung her doubts among 
Until she grew dejected. 



AN INDIAN SUMMER ROSE. 

" There's John," she said, '^ has got a head 

That ne'er will be directed. 
But he is wise, has lovely eyes. 

And is so well connected. 
I love him too, of course I do ! 

And he shall be selected. 

'' How James would start ! He has a heart 

So easily affected. 
He's fond and fair, has curling hair, 

And manners quite perfected. 
He's rich as well. I cannot tell 

Why he should be rejected." 

So James or John, it balanced on, 
Each judgment new corrected, 

Until the maid began to fade, 
Her thoughts still uncollected ; 

And both the men proposed again 
To girls, while she reflected. 



55 



AN INDIAN SUMMER ROSE. 

The soft November days are here. 
The aftermath of blossom's year, 
When all the verdant wreaths are dead, 
And crimson banners float instead. 



56 AN INDIAN SUMMER ROSE. 

When Summer, sorry she has gone, 
Turns sadly back to look upon 
Her fading kingdom, smiles and throws 
Into earth's lap a brilliant rose. 

This morn, before the frost's white face 
Was touched with Indian Summer's grace. 
Before the hum of voice and feet 
Had broken silence on our street, 

I stepped without to break my bread 
With Nature, who my soul has fed 
Since childhood with communion grand, 
And took a closed bud in my hand. 

* Despite the thorn the rose-tree thrust 
The bud grew warmer in my trust : 
I kissed and bound it to my throat. 
And for an hour forgot to note 

Its presence, save that on the air 

Floated familiar fragrance rare. 

I paused before a mirror then 

To smooth my wind-blown hair again. 

In glad surprise I saw my guest 
A full-blown rose upon my breast ; 
The creamy petals, waxen, fair. 
Perfect as Heaven within my care. 

Imprisoned beauty, innate power 
Had freed in that unconscious hour. 
My brooch, full many a flower's tomb, 
Held proudly the pure Autumn bloom. 



VALENTINES. 5 7 

And never rose-tree felt as I 
In all the blossom years gone by, 
So thankful, reverent, and blessed 
To have a rose wake on its breast. 



VALENTINES, 



Sweet, sweet Valentine, 
Snow-fringe on the pine 
Beckons the columbine. 
Beneath the touch of rime 
I hear the bluebells chime 
And see the daisy shine, 
Knowing that I am thine, 
And, love, that thou art mine, 
Sweet, sweet Valentine. 



Dear Heart, good-day; 

I called to say. 

That if I may, 

I'll gladly stay 

For life your Valentine. 



THE ORGAN-GRINDER. 

Gilding the November air 
Falls the sunshine everywhere, 
Laughing through the leafless trees, 
Dancing on the empty breeze ; 
Mocking aftermath of days 
Sweet and fair with summer's ways. 

On the chill November's breast 
Withering flowers are closely pressed. 
All the songs are hushed and still 
That of bud and blossom trill ; 
And the morning, coming late, 
Misses birds that used to wait. 

'Neath the clear November skies 
Warblings come in odd disguise, 
And upon the busy street 
We the organ-grinder meet, 
Tossing out his tunes in time, 
Gay, mechanical, sublime. 

Fragrant on November air 
Rises the Italian's prayer. 



58 



A UTUMNAL. 

He for nature would atone. 
Organ-grinder strange and lone ! 
Your worn melodies instil 
Warmth into November's chill. 

Weather on the blast and cold ! 
Repeat airs a hundred-fold, 
Merry, national, and grand. 
Turning with your good right hand. 
He who grinds the sweetest tunes 
Brightens most November noons. 



59 



AUTUMNAL. 

Softly the Pickering flows 
On through the meadows. 

Brightly the autumn glows, 
Despite its shadows. 

Golden the ripened corn 
Peeps from its easing ; 

Brown verdant fields are worn. 
Fulness displacing. 

Yearly the birds depart. 

Song and toil over ; 
Bees' sweetened hive and heart, 

Rest from the clover. 



6o BESIDE A LONELY GRAVE, 

Yearly the blossoms fade 
With their perfection, 

Leaves hide where silent glade 
Waits their collection. 



Passing on swiftest wings, 
Time beauty follows ; 

Autumns are close to springs, 
We flit as swallows. 



BESIDE A LONELY GRAVE. 

Near the meadow and rippling sun 

In laughter interlacing, 
A belt of woodland breaks the sun 

With leafy shadow tracing. 

Fine wide-boughed trees, with naught to cross. 

Stretch out their arms caressing. 
The hillocks fringed with grass and moss. 

And give the grave their blessing. 

Dear silent grave, that fifty years 

The shadows have protected ! 
The clear-cut tombstone scarce appears 

To have been long neglected. 



BESIDE A LONELY GRAVE. 

I climb upon the broad stone wall 
That, my own height exceeding, 

Surrounds the grave enclosure small, 
And seated, pause, while reading, 

''Rebecca Marshall S«iith. Who died 

June, 1830," follows. 
''Aged 21." I push aside 

Bramble and nest of swallows 

To see what words of love and fame 
Are written on the marble ; 

But this is all, date, age, and name. 
No broken praise or garble. 

She died away from friends and home, 
And chose this lonely sleeping, 

Where sunsets fall and shadows come. 
While Nature guard is keeping. 

Unbroken rest. Tired stranger, take 
A blossom that I throw thee ! 

If thou could'st at its touch awake 
The sylphs alone would know thee. 

I read thy name, and still thou art 
To me the same as nameless. 

A lass perhaps of bravest heart 
And fond ambitions blameless. 

I speculate upon thy life 

Here on death's strong enclosure, 
Trusting some wall barred out all strife 

And shielded from exposure. 
6* 



62 BESIDE A LONELY GRAVE. 

Thy loves and griefs alike to me 
As thy young life are hidden. 

Only the rain-washed mound I see, 
As I sit here unbidden, 

The mildewed marble, and a growth 
From thy still grave uplifting 

Gaunt fibrous hands, leaf-fingered both. 
To catch the light down sifting. 

My childhood's harp of broken strings 
The slight breeze sways inviting : 

It *' Cruel Barbara Allan" sings, 
My memory ear delighting. 

Surely Rebecca Marshall Smith, 
With name so plain and comely. 

Could not have been a vagrant myth, 
Loveless, or lorn, or homely. 

Neither, I trust, for love's sweet sake 
Has she thus early slumbered. 

Each fancy that my thoughts awake 
Is by some doubt encumbered. 

I only know she lived, she died. 
The common fate of mortals ; 

That I sit here her grave beside. 
At vague conjectures' portals ; 

That in the years, whose pulses now 
Beat swift with breath of roses, 

There is a pallor for my brow, 
A seal that time imposes. 



BIRD SONGS TRANSLATED. ^t^ 

Ah, when my grave has fifty years 
Lost shape in Nature's keeping, 

Who in this vale of smiles and tears 
Will note my silent sleeping. 

And wonder if my staid long name 

Denotes one rough or tender, 
Whether life valuable became 

Before its long surrender? 

How little are we of the whole 

Of the vast plan unfolding ! 
Only a passing bloom each soul 

Is for life's moment holding. 

Then as a sigh the blossom fades. 

And on earth's bosom lieth. 
The world forgets its finest shades, 

And so its memory dieth. 



BIRD SONGS TRANSLATED. 

THE blue-bird's. 

It is not mine, you understand. 
To drive the Winter from the land. 
But as it goes my voice and wing 
Are notes and beckon-wands of spring. 



64 BIRD SONGS TRANSLATED. 

THE robin's. 

I KNOW the world loves me ! 

This brand on my breast 
The poet well reckoned : 

I bless and am blessed. 

THE wren's. 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
In fair or falling weather, 

My Quaker mate and I abroad, 
Or in our house together. 

THE woodpecker's. 

I like to pick the locks of trunks, 
Twack, twack, twack ! 

And find my food and nest as well. 
This bark is hard to crack ! 



THE ENGLISH SPARROW S. 

They called us scavengers. 

Imported us to cleanse the trees, 

And now shout " lepers !" 

That we claim earned homes in these. 



THE blue-jay S. 

Color, beauty, and grace are mine ; 
The sky, the snow, and the columbine. 
Born with a tufted crown, a king, 
Why should I trouble my voice to sing ? 



BIJiD SONGS TRANSLATED. 65 

THE SONG martin's. 

A GARLAND of music and summer, 
The leaves and blossoms of song, 

We toss o'er men's temples and murmur, ' 
" The summer is perfect and long." 

THE CROW blackbird's. 

We are the black, black minstrels. 

The choir of wood and lea. 
The great troupe uninvited 

Who render concerts free. 

THE owl's. 

Toowoo ! toowoo ! tewee. 
The darkness covers me. 
Toowoo ! toowoo ! tewee. 
When man is blind I see. 

THE sea-gull's. 

I HOVER, dip, and skim 
Along the ocean's brim. 
Then lift my wings and rise 
Into the artist's skies. 

THE quail's. 

Bob White ! Bob White ! Bob White ! 
The autumn's robes are bright. 
Bob White ! Bob White ! Bob White ! 
The long grass hides me quite. 



SOUR GRAPES. 



A LATE SPRING. 



Who cares for Spring and warm close weather ? 
The spread of wing, the bloom of heather, 
The hum of bees, the scent of flowers, 
The green of trees, the lazy hours 
Which marked of old the golden days 
When April sang of Summer's ways? 

We like the cold sharp winds that whistle. 
That puff and scold. The frosts that bristle 
Their spikes of white our gardens over. 
Although not quite so sweet as clover, 
Are useful blooms and health inspiring ; 
And we half wonder, while admiring 

The sombre hues that robe the season. 
Whether we choose, and for what reason. 
The drowsy days with color crowded ? 
Whether it pays to have views clouded 
With velvet leaves and birds and bugs 
And trip in grass-fringed clover rugs ? 



66 



A SPRING IDYL. 

*' Chung !" said a frog in the Schuylkill's bank, 
" I'm wellnigh smothered. Woodchuck, I'd thank 
You to walk out again and see 
If there's to be shadow or warmth for me." 

'' Neighbor," the woodchuck said, and sighed, 
''I've had my trip and am satisfied ; 
Resume your silence and court repose 
Till March her thirty-one bugles blows." 



SILVER WEDDING LINES. 

READ AT THE ANNIVERSARY OF J. AND C. E., TENTH MONTH, 13th, 
1883. 

We recognize the silver chain 

That binds your lives together, 
And stamp the links with wishes true, 

This fair October weather. 

The years have borne their blooms of joy. 

And sorrow's dew perchance 
Has strewn the way in nights that marked 

The summer's swift advance. 

67 



6S SILVER WEDDING LINES. 

But ever rosy, sunlit morn 

Absorbed the dew again; 
For flowers of bliss spread perfumed leaves 

To cover scars of pain. 

There is no cloudless stretch of years, 

No perfect, settled calm 
For human kind. Through hopes and fears 

We search and gather balm. 

If love be true, what matters else 
The toss and touch of weather ? 

For every path is kin to Heaven 
Where fond hearts walk together. 

And what is love? Ah, you can tell 
Who've known earth's best affection. 

And hand in hand gone down the years 
That meet our retrospection ! 

It is no empty bauble meant 

For early pastime clever, 
But love is love ; the gift of Goci, 

The one bloom sweet forever. 

The perfect, fadeless Eden flower. 

Whose petals at the *' fall" 
Escaped the gate by angel's care 

To blossom for us all. 

God bless your blossom ! Watch the chain 

Of silver, that together 
Binds all its sweetness till the links 

Grow gold through autumn weather. 



NEVER NOW. 

A FANTASY. 

There's mist on the face of morning, 

And over the marriage vow 
A drift of ^olian sadness 

Sweeps, murmuring, '^ never now." 

Far into the noonday sweetness 

Of love's blest garner day, 
I hear, with regret's completeness, 

A dear heart's broken lay. 

Again in the perfumed glowing 

Of orange-blossomed light, 
I smile at the guests outgoing 

From our reception night. 

I smile, and the farewells utter ; 

Wishes that fall like dew 
On bridal petals, flutter 

And rest on bound lives true. 

A strong hand clasps and claims me, — 
He lingered beyond the rest ; 

Though the midnight hours are breaking, 
I sit at his still behest, 

7 69 



70 



NEVER NOW. 

And listen to late the story 

I would not hear before ; 
He whispers, love's sweet glory 

Can touch him never more. 

He gives me his parting blessing 
At last, when the talk is done ; 

He trembles, — and I speak softly 
Of fair maids yet unvvon. 

There is pain in his eyes desponding, 
The red blood leaves his brow, 

And his pale lips twitch, responding, 
"Having loved thee — never now." 

I turn to the warmth of love-fires, 
And he to the winter blast. 

I turn to my chosen shelter : 
He is alone to the last. 

In years, that ripen and gather 
Our hopes into silver sheaves, 

I beg the Lord to remember 
The bruised and broken leaves ; 

To give them high expansion. 
That they were crowded here. 

And allow our sheaves, the richest. 
To them for endless cheer. 



THE AUTUMN PARABLE. 

The high noon bloom and fragrance done, 

Dame Nature sows the seeds 
Of color caught from summer's sun, 
Of beautiful vines that smile and run, 

And, freer than all, of weeds. 

She never neglects a wayside plain. 

Which we by chance forget 
When drilling with care our cultured grain, 
And sighing because the drouth and rain 

Will come the wrong time yet. 

She plants the carrot and yarrow pods, 

The mullein, the elder fair, 
The everlastings and golden-rods, 
And watches close by the pining sods 

To place the plantain there. 

She sows the daisy and thistle-down. 

The aster royal and white, 
The brier seed and the beech-nut brown. 
Covering them with her satin gown 



Safe from the season's night. 



71 



72 



THE TULIP-WILD. 

Shredding and painting her own array 

In dainty lap-robes leaves, 
She shields and hushes with promise gay 
Each nucleus frail she tucks away, 

And miracles achieves. 

The ground is filled with germs in store 

For weather foul and fair. 
Earth reproduces us o'er and o'er 
The parable of the seed and sower ; 

Proof perfect of God's care. 



THE TULIP-WILD. 

A DAY of sultry summer 

Strayed out by some mischance 

Into the sweet May weather, 
A picket with scorching glance. 

We drove into the country. 

Where birds and blossoms swung. 

And where the river wandered 
The velvet green among. 

The stream stooped low and narrowed, 

A mill the water caught, 
Upon its wheels revolving. 

And it to service brought, 



THE TULIP-WILD. 73 

While, trickling down the dam breast, 

The crystal tears were wept, 
Because the volume prisoned 

Could not escape, except 

It tarry in the mill wheel 

And nerve the ponderous arms 
That crush to flour the product 

Of Perkiomen farms. 

A barefoot boy was angling 

Along the velvet bank ; 
A girl, half wistful, watching 

His movements from a plank. 

'' Come over here ! It's cooler," 

He called with rustic grace. 
And she advanced, half shyly. 

Till willows fringed her face. 

Three ducks, of snow-flake whiteness, 

Floated below the fall. 
Their action scarce was swimming, 

They barely moved at all ; 

But midway in the water, . 

As bits of down on air, 
They drifted with the current 

Quite lazily and fair. 

We sought in vain a shadow 

Beside the ancient mill ; 
And hitched in the broad sunshine. 

There, while our horse stood still, 
7* 



74 



THE TULIP-WILD. 

I heard the old mill's clatter; 

I saw the water-fall ; 
The lad and lass who angled ; 

The brown up-reaching wall. 

I climbed down from the carriage, 

(My escort, gone before, 
Left me, books and lilac bloom, 

Beside the mill's low door.) 

The summer's picket drove me 

Close to the water's edge ; 
And, underneath a half-dead tree, 

I found a broken ledge 

That jutted out. Accepting 

The promised breath of air, 
I fancied hung about the tree, 

I sat with comfort there. 

% 

My thoughts found shape, and rhythm 

Grew as it will apace, 
'Till, at pit-a-pat of feet, 

I turned my heated face 

To see two human jewels 

Almost within my reach. 
Boy of three and girl of two. 

As pure as jasper each. 

They curiously approached me 

Touching the lilac bloom 
Resting near my busy hand. 

The purple and perfume. 



THE TULIP-WILD. 75 

'*Yes, take it, dears," I answered, 

Offering the tasselled flower ; 
'' You are the fairer blossoms : 

It withers in an hour." 

The wee girl looked affrighted. 

And backed a yard away, 
To where the boy stood solemn. 

'• You wonders of a day ! 

*' You like me better voiceless." 

I thought, and dropped my eyes 
Down from the startled picture 

To fancy's self-surprise. 

I wrote on verse and verses, 

Translations odd and wild ; 
The children touched my elbow 

And at my lilacs smiled. 

Such wee brown hands ! Their owners 

Breathed not a single word ; 
They bore away the lilacs, 

I heeded nor demurred. 

My pictured thought I finished, 

Pronounced it passing fair ; 
Forgetting half the outward view 

While shading it with care. 

The ducks the shallow water 

Still floated lazily ; 
The boy and girl at fishing 

Sat 'neath the willow tree. 



76 THE TULIP-WILD. 

A string of fish between them 
Lay panting on the grass ; 

The slender, foolish fishes ! 
Sparkling like bits of glass. 

The mill craunched on with clatter, 
A pleasing, wholesome sound ; 

The water's grief o'er dam breast 
Continual egress found. 

Beyond the Perkiomen 

Were rocks and straggling trees. 
With wilding vines and bushes 

Which clung about their knees ; 

A foothold bare of grasses, 
A dash of hardy weeds, 

That ever in waste places 
The finer growth impedes. 

The leaves were all half drooping, 
Discouraged that the sun 

Should light the fires of summer 
Before their robes were spun 

And glossed with satin varnish. 
To hide the tender veins 

Which had been interlacing 
Their hopes with early rains. 

On some old rocks the mosses 
Had donned their hats of green. 

To coquet with the lichens 
Where fairy cups are seen. 



THE TULIP-WILD, 

The dainty plumes were wilted ; 

The mosses whispered, ^' Wait ! 
The fiery color bearer 

Will pass the western gate." 

I heard complainings echoed 
From, rounded hills beyond, 

"The day is out of season^ 
And should, abashed, abscond." 

The half-fledged, half-dead shade limbs 
Were shelter full for me ; — 

Again I fell to dreaming. 
Content beneath the tree. 

And there, amid the silence 
The mill wheel only stirred, 

The timid pit-a-patter 
Of feet again I heard ; 

The little ones returning 

To take another look 
And see if I made lilacs 

With pencil in my book. 

"They think me an odd creature. 
And voiceless like me best." 

I made no turn or movement, 
A statue was, at rest. 

The curious, trustful children, 
I felt them smooth my dress 

And twitch the skirt-folds slightly 
With quaint complaisantness. 



77 



78 THE TULIP-WILD. 

"They're going to build a playhouse, 

My skirt the carpet fair," 
I thought, for they were laying 

A train of flowers there. 

And seeing, without seeming, 
Their turns of natural grace, 

I felt, at last, a tiny hand 
Touch timidly my face. 

''She seep," the boy said, tersely ; 

And then, with chirp and smile, 
The little things came nearer 

To trim my hat awhile. 

Their garniture was tulips, 

As brilliant as e'er blew. 
Gold, royal shades and scarlet, 

And combinations new. 

An armful in profusion. 

Each glittering quill of green 
Flamed out a torch of color 

Upon the novel scene. 

Those children decked and trimmed me 

As long as I could be 
A tableau or a statue 

Or silent tulip tree ; 

But, when I made a movement 

My merriment was plain ; 
They ran, like fawns affrighted. 

Into a roadside lane. 



THE TULIP-WILD. 

I bunched the royal trophies 

Besprinkling my array; 
Looked where our horse was stamping 

At heat and dust and May ; 

Smoothed out my ruffled plumage, 
Secured my book of rhyme, 

And rose with my experience 
And tulips just in time 

To see those wee ones scamper 

Along the sunny lane, 
Where, lost in trees and distance. 

They disappeared again ; 

To see a woman coming. 

Who laughed at their affright. 

And called to me, *' Come hither,. 
And see the tulips right." 

The tulips, and the tulips, 

Oh, they were fair to see ! 
The lane broke to a garden 

Whither she guided me. 

A garden full of tulips, 

A square of flame and gold. 

As free as yellow daisies 

They blossomed on the wold. 

" They grow as wild as clover," 

She answered my delight, 
"And even in our grass-plots 

We can't destroy them quite." 



79 



8o HUMAN NATURE. 

The royal color-bearers ! 

I seem to see them yet. 
Crowned regiments of tulips 

I never shall forget. 

Whene'er the May sun touches 
My brow with shafts of flame, 

My fancy seeks the streamlet 
Where tulip envoys came. 



HUMAN NATURE. 

Rare clusters of grapes are trailing 
The wall with purple and pink ; 

A child on the lower railing 

Sighs, ''The highest are sweet, I think." 

The grass its tangle of fringes 
Combs over the rounded lawn. 

And a cow with longing cringes 
By the gate at earliest dawn. 

It is so the wide world over, 
We crave what the lines debar ; 

The kine the forbidden clover. 
And mankind the unreached star. 



APRIL, 8 1 

We are blind to bloom the nearest 
While looking for buds unblown, 

Neglectful of what is dearest 
For that we should let alone. 



APRIL. 



The April wind is singing, 

Can you catch her tune? 
Her changeful notes are ringing 

Wild from noon to noon. 

To-day I watched and listened 

To a thousand strains, 
While sunbeams chased and glistened 

Quite a dozen rains. 

Curious tones and winning, 

Wilful tones and weird ; 
A shrew, in the beginning 

Angel-like appeared. 

The crocus pale or yellow, 

April's favorite child, 
Casts longing glances mellow 

Towards her mother wild ; 

A kiss and shake together. 

Answer she receives. 
I wonder whether weather 

Constancy believes ? 



A LABORER'S REPLY. 

" Rest thee, daughter. Do not be 
Troubled for humanity. 

" Take thy ease, and take thy joy. 
What to thee each growing boy? 

*'What if he should from the moil 
Bear the rough and scars of soil ? 

** And if from his heart and lips 
Time the sweetness early sips? 

** Save thine own and duty's done ; 
Rest thy form mid comforts won. 

" Teach thy reaching soul content, 
Which is faith's embodiment." 

Thus I heard a counselling voice, 
Tender ; but I made ray choice. 

Never wanting rest and ease, 
Or the peaceful symphonies 
82 



A LABORER'S REPLY. 83 

Of contentment's witching tune; 
Rather strength to importune 

Satan to depart below 

While our human blossoms blow. 

Action is not trouble's twin. 
Duties that at home begin 

May embrace, by fond desire, 
Those without the household fire ; 

And whatever grain of good 
Falls where it is understood 

Is not threshed and sown in vain. 
But will reproduce again. 

It is not enough to live 
Holding ease, with none to give. 

Better offer friendship free 
Unto all humanity 

Than withhold one breath of cheer 
That had reached an open ear. 

As no outward comforts can 
Fashion the immortal man ; 

As no restful ease can bring 
To desire the strength of wing ; 



84 THE CENTENARIAN. 

Let us press our open hands 
Forward as the need demands ! 



Age may chant her roundelay 
Softly when our powers are gray. 

Mine to work while God allow ! 
Humbly, if He teach me how, — 

And if one life purer grows 
I am satisfied. He knows 

What in every way is best, 
Safe in Him my faith I rest. 



THE CENTENARIAN. 

Seamed is his brow as an oak tree, 

And shrivelled his cheeks as the bark. 
Age touched him when I was a baby. 

And gave him a silver mark. 
But he thrives, while we pass over, 

The man who is never old. 
And he marvels that late exotics 

Droop at the touch of cold. 



There is no life unvexed by vain endeavor. 
No thorn less roses that bloom on forever. 



A GATHERING EDGE OF STORM, 

The waves run high, the clouds stoop low ; 
A storm is brewing ; rude breezes blow. 

A narrow belt of light is seen 

The heavy drapery and sea between. 

The storm blows fiercer; the gray clouds roll ; 
The sky, like a great inverted bowl, 

Is mottled and flecked with smoke of pearl ; 
While, under its rim, the loose sands whirl. 

The porpoises swim in dire affright ; 

The ship-sails lower and sweep from sight. 

The sword of lightning the dark cloud gores ; 
The lion of thunder groans and roars. 

The shells and sea-foam strike the sand 
With an angry dash from the ocean's hand. 

And, '' Keep the coast line clear for me !" 
Bellows the voice of a rising sea. 

8* 85 



36 FANCY'S AFTERMATH. 

The sword of lightning that rends the sky 
Strikes the water and rebounds high. 

Time after time on the deep it falls, 
As crash of mortars bombarding walls. 

In torrents of rain the clouds descend. 
And the angry elements wild contend. 

My muse and I forsake the door, 

For the waters drench us as they pour. 



FANCY'S AFTERMATH. 

When I had no hours to cage them, 

Fancies clustered ever near. 
Ripe and luscious swung inviting, 

Sweetening all the atmosphere ; 
Dreaming not of vague elusion. 

For no winds now south, now west. 
Tossed them with uncertain motion ; 

They were every moment's guest. 

See I yet their waiting fulness 
As they cluster ripe for wine; 

Reach my leisured hand to catch them. 
Find them palled upon the vine. 



FANCY'S AFTERMATH. 87 

Not forever could they bide me ; 

While I stooped to lesser things, 
Their rare essence has escaped me, 

Risen upon ether wings. 



And whatever fruit remaineth 

I must pluck with closer care, 
One by one the grapes examine. 

That half withered yet look fair j 
Slowly press the poor reversions 

Of the long neglected vine. 
That had yielded in its fulness 

Purest elixir of wine. 

Time, though he subserves, is patient, 

Prescribes limits for us all. 
And we suffer loss who slowly 

Answer, or neglect his call. 
Circumstances, webs as spiders, 

That encompass us as flies, 
Weigh not in his balance poising 

'Twixt God's footstool and the skies. 

They are ours. The snares he counts not, 

But relentless in his beat 
Presses on and on, ignoring 

Tangles which entrap our feet. 
Gifts he offers luscious, golden, 

Clusters faultless in extent. 
Can I murmur that I reap not 

'Till the harvest's best is spent ? 



gg THE ABSENT. 

Can I murmur that I tarried, 

In the web of duty caught, 
Just in sight of perfect fancies 

Which illumined every thought ? 
No ! a thousand noes together. 

They have sweetened all my hours, 
And with grateful hand I gather 

Those that wait my weakened powers. 



THE ABSENT. 

I LIVE with my friends and love them, 
Though they are far away ; 

The joy of their speaking presence 
Hallows each passing day. 

I see their faces and greet them 
At morning, noon, and eve. 

I gather their best thoughts to me 
And mine around them weave. 

Friendship ignoreth all distance, 
And love outweareth time. 

The features of those we love best 
Are with us in every clime. 



THE FLOWER OF KINDNESS. 

The beautiful flower of kindness 
Sheds a perfume rare and sweet ; 

Its petals fall as snowflakes 
Of rest 'round weary feet. 

The creamy exotic of culture 
Smiles in. the scale of thought, 

But the little flower of kindness, 
With simple prayers fraught, 

Outweighs in the angels' balance 
Grace, culture, fame, and gold ; 

For kindness is immortal, 
The best bloom on the wold. 

He who gathers and garlands. 
With generous thought and aim. 

The blossoms in wreaths for shorn ones 
'Till hope revives her claim ; 

Who shields the dumb from sorrow 

With loving care humane, 
Who scatters words of comfort, 

Has never lived in vain. 



90 



MV BOYS. 

Who bears the flower of kindness, 

As signet on his breast, 
And loveth all God's creatures. 

In blessing them is blessed. 



MY BOYS. 



The shimmering hair of your blithesome girls 

Is soft, I make no doubt. 
Beneath the drapery of glistening curls 

The violet stars peep out ; 
Bloom of the lily, blush of the rose, 

Blended delicate sweets ; 
You half fear to touch them, as I suppose. 

Dainty elysian treats. 

Prefer I the less ethereal boys, 

That shout around my barque, 
And fill my heart and my house with noise 

From early dawn till dark. 
Tangible beings, with light-brown locks 

Innocent all of curl; 
At the age of four ignoring frocks. 

And making bonnets whirl. 

Their eyes are mirrors of mirth and fun. 

And velvet scarlet lips 
Are full of kisses, as sky of sun 

When summer nectar sips. 



AfY BOYS. 91 

Their cheeks, that I take between my palms, 

The wind has touched before ; 
They are warm with the breath of nature's psalms, 

The gold has tinged them o'er. 

Ruddy and brown are the fingers ten, 

Which count the lapse of years 
That will lift them to the height of men, 

Beyond the reach of tears. 
The lithe little arms that hold me in, 

Or catch me as I go. 
Are firm as the feet whose gladsome din 

Follows me to and fro. 

Angelic lilies are sweet, I know. 

In faultless raiment clad ; 
Afar, in the distance, I see them glow. 

Without them earth were sad ; 
But for the touch and the toss of life 

Give me the stronger blooms. 
That stand through sunlight, and storm, and strife, 

When the smoke of battle looms. 

Give me the mirthful, frolicsome boys. 

That draw my age away. 
And thrill me through with their boisterous joys. 

Till I am as young as they. 
Give me the boys, the boys, the boys, 

The boys the Lord calls mine. 
They pay me in love for all the noise ; 

'Tis recompense divine. 



UNDER THE LILAC. 

Robed in purple the lilac 
Catches the sun's gold kiss ; 

Touched by her queenly raiment 
Dreameth a maid of bliss. 

Dreameth the breath of lilac, 
Lading the amber air ; 

Filleth the dim, dim vista 
Of years, excluding care. 

Sweet, oh, sweet is the lilac. 
Royally kissed of sun ; 

Sweet are the dreams of maiden ; 
This is the sweetest one. 

Under the fringe of purple 
Stoopeth a manly form ; 

The fancy blossoms real. 

Her dreams with life are warm. 

The lilac time forever ! 

The purple, gold, the breath ; 
The dreams, the true, true living, 

Stranger to fade and death. 
92 



DEATH'S DOOR. 

I HAVE been close to death's door, 
When I scarce cared how it swung ; 

I've touched the ponderous hinges 
Upon which its weight is hung. 

I've seen the light beyond it, 
I have heard the noiseless key 

Turned by the guardian angel, 
An entrance debarring me. 

I've knocked and found it fastened, 
And aweary backward turned. 

When the fires on earth's altar 
Seemed all into ashes burned. 

I've wandered from its portals 
With a slow and lingering tread, 

And hushed, lest late it opened 
And I yet might join the dead. 

I've journeyed onward, onward, 
Till the fires of life glow bright. 

The door at which I waited 
Grows dim and is lost to sight. 

9 93 



A BIRTHDAY LETTER. 

TO A FRIEND, FEBRUARY 28, 1882. 

The winter, robed in down and lace, 
With glittering crystals on her breast, 

Loses her prestige, and the space 

Snow garments trailed and diamonds pressed 

Is marked by narrow shreds of lace. 

Sweet breath and golden wings of Spring 
Are near, that toss the threads with grace 

And troll for Summer's blossoming. 

With all the Winter gone, and all 

The Spring to come. A birthday blessed 

Each year by words and deeds that fall 
Into surrounding lives as rest. 

Herald of birds are long, sweet hours, 

A smile of promise true. 
Dear friend, may Time's best passion-flowers 

Be woven in a wreath for you. 



94 



A REFUSAL. 

And you have said you loved me ; 

Perhaps believed it true, 
When all the lawn was sparkling 

Beneath the moon-kissed dew. 

And if I half consented 
To weigh your eager plea, 

Smiling, because 'twas moonlight, 
I trust you'll pardon me. 

For, with the sunshine's dawning, 
I know you meant it not ; 

And what I say by moonlight 
By morn I have forgot. 

Your love is like the rainbow. 

And mine? Perhaps like dew. 
For, if you thought you loved me, 

I know I don't love you. 



95 



SIXTY. 

LINES WRITTEN FOR AND READ AT THE BIRTHDAY CELEBRA- 
TION OF I. T. L., AUGUST 23, 1885. 

Sixty summers and winters have harvests been gath- 
ered and spent, 

Sixty blossom and frost times the Lord in mercy has 
sent, 

Since into this sphere of action thee came, a tiny 
child 

Awaiting the crown of manhood that has thy days be- 
guiled. 

Sixty years is a journey the youthful scarce hope to 
take ; 

But, walking quietly forward, stepping from break to 
break, 

The way grows shorter and shorter, until, all unaware, 

The goal is reached ; the traveller smiles, and ques- 
tions, "Am I there?" 

The miles grow dim behind him, and the crags which 

cut his feet 
Are overgrown with roses, while all the past is sweet. 
It should be so at sixty, I ponder in looking on, 
The best of the day is over, the mid-day sun is gone. 
96 



SIXTY. 



97 



The burdens carried should lighten, rewards of labor 

look in ; 
The rest and play of the afternoon their concert of 

ease begin ; 
The hands, inured to action, fold, and the softening 

palnas 
Reach out to soothe and lessen the mid-day traveller's 

qualms. 

For many are spent and weary who have gone not half 

so far ; 
And he, who has travelled the road, full well knows 

where the quicksands are. 
The mornings are often cloudy, the high-noon sun is 

hot, 
The way seems long to sixty to those who have stepped 

it not. 

Cheering words are beams of gold that ray from the 
afternoon. 

'Tis strings that are worn by service that ring in per- 
fect tune. 

The tried, the true, and the willing, who've marched 
with feet unshod 

O'er lawn and stubble and broscage, full threescore 
years for God, 

Must know the secret of living, the secret of motion 

and rest. 
And where the cooling shadows of summer are deep 

and best. 



98 



A WAKENED. 



But for the family record, with its lettering clear and 

black, 
On the good old Bible-pages, we'd think Time off the 

track, 

When he reckons thee at sixty. Yet the cane and arm- 
chair show 

That others than he remember how fast the years outgo, 

And that dear ones are planning for thy pleasant after- 
noon. 

May it be long, my uncle, as the rosiest one in June ! 



AWAKENED. 



It broke upon the autumn air 

A sharp, imperious peal, 
And snapped the cord of slumber short 

That bound my mid-day zeal. 

It rang again, ah, bells and doors 

A hundred feet apart ! 
Ah, servants out ! But I must go 

To welcome the dear heart. 

A spectacle forlorn and wan 

Beyond my worst conceit 
Stands crouching on the marble step, 

And begs, with naked feet ; 



DECEMBER. 99 

A woman with a tiny life 

Beside her own to keep, — 
A haggard wanderer of the dust, 

With unborn babe asleep. 

*' No food, no clothes !" A contrast wide 

Between thy life and mine. 
Some surplus ray of ease I bid 

Go drifting into thine. 

Though disappointed not to greet 

The warmth of loving arms. 
Recoiling to see on the street 

Such absence of all charms, 

The peal and plea awake my heart 

From mid-day slumber's spell. 
I know the dear Lord asks of me, 

"Are all my children well?" 



DECEMBER. 



Bleak December, I remember 

There is Christmas 'neath your folds, 

And these chilly winds are trilling 
Of the halo that it holds. 

In your keeping 't has been sleeping 
Since the blessed Christ was born. 

And but yearly wakens clearly. 
Thus to crown His natal morn. 



lOo ^^O HAS PRAYED FOR THE MURDERER? 

Gather round it, as you've bound it 
With your whitening garments in, 

All the glory of the story 
That has lifted us from sin. 

Dear December ! Christians' ember 

Of the peace of long ago. 
Christmas holding and enfolding 

It in robe of spotless glow. 

While embracing, oh, be tracing 
On our souls the season's snow ! 

Let our breathing be a wreathing 
Of Divine love's overflow. 



WHO HAS PRAYED FOR THE 
MURDERER? 

Who has prayed for the soul that sinned? 

Who, of the multitude. 
Has felt in his heart for the Judas dark 

A Christian solicitude? 

Who is there that gave love for hate ? 

Blessing to him who cursed. 
As the dear Christ bade, on the olden plain. 

Ere the multitude dispersed ? 



KEEP THE BULKHEADS CLOSED. loi 

Who has said, twixt the pangs of grief, 

Forgive him, Father in Heaven ! 
As Christ in His Mountain Sermon taught, 

As we would be forgiven ? 

Retribution is sure and swift. 

And bitter the fruit of wrong ; 
But who has prayed, through the Autumn days. 

Lord, make the weak one strong? 



KEEP THE BULKHEADS CLOSED.* 

Sailing in the open sea. 

Or along the channels gray. 
Keep your bulkheads closed, and be 

Ready for a storm or stray. 

Keep them closed, albeit now 

Clouds and dangers are afar; 
Ere tlie morrow storm or prow 

May your assured safety mar. 

Better that a thousand times 

You should have them needless closed. 

Than that once the death-wave climbs 
Where security reposed. 



* Suggested by the loss of the " Pomerania." 



I02 ALICE. 

Navigators of the deep ! 

Like are you to we of land, 
Careless in the watch you keep, 

And the precious freight you strand, 

All are voyages of fate, 

Baffled by uncertainty, 
Overconfident till too late. 

Open bulkheads, death, we see. 

Sailing channels, sailing space. 
Where the breezes fan or chafe, 

Where fleet joy and sorrow race, 
With closed bulkheads we are safe. 



ALICE. 



Bright-eyed, dark-eyed Alice, 

Blossom of sunny days, 
Charming the gray old Winter 

With your impulsive ways. 
Facing the eddying snow-flakes, 

Tracking the depth of down 
Several squares, with dainty feet, 

To reach a friend in town. 

Deeper than peach bloom, Alice, 
Fairer than jacqueminots, 

Roses linger, on your cheeks 
Satin as apricots. 



ALICE. 

Ripe lips, snow-flakes melted, 
And hair of blackest brown. 

Out of the storm, sweet Alice ! 
I am your friend in town. 

Graceful and loving Alice, 

Close in your warm embrace. 
Already I've forgotten 

The storm you had to face. 
There's sunshine in your kisses, 

And bird songs in your voice ; 
Your laughter is a ripple 

Whose burden is, ''rejoice!" 

Bright-eyed, dark-eyed Alice, 

Blossom of summer days, 
Charming the hearts that love you 

With your impulsive ways; 
May all the storms be snow-flakes 

That edge your pathway, dear. 
And like this, in your sunshine, 

As quickly disappear. 



103 



TO THE ROSES ON MY BRIDAL 
VEIL. 

Wreaths of roses, pure as snow, 
Smiling yet as long ago ; 
With your silken petals set 
Thick as bloom on mignonette, 
O'er the length and breadth of lace 
That obscured my younger face. 

How you mock the flight of time ! 

Trailing, budded branches climb 

Up, as then, to kiss my hair, 

While the wreathed edge sweeps the stair. 

Not a thread has changed its space 

In my veil of bridal lace. 

Perfect every fold has kept ; 
Not a shade of age has crept 
O'er the fabric's snowy bloom. 
Catch I still the faint perfume 
Of the silken roses' breath. 
As they murmur " Until death." 

See I, though it may not be, 
Earthly privilege granted me, 
104 



TO THE ROSES ON MY BRIDAL VEIL. 105 

All the guests who faced the bride 

And her lover, side by side; 

Hear his voice and mine repeat 

Words which crowned our lives complete ; 

Feel the veiling roses sway 
Backward, and a ripe kiss lay 
Softly on my trembling lips. 
Then my courage ebbs and slips 
Quite behind my pride of place, 
And I seek my father's face, 

Hungry for an old-time rest 

On his broad and faithful breast ; 

Catch his tender, warning glance, 

Note his leisurely advance. 

Feel him clasp my hand and bless. 

While eluding my caress. 

Till my surging heart recedes 
Equal to the moment's needs. 
By his forethought, ever wise, 
I am saved in others' eyes 
From the bursting sob that hung 
My new happiness among ; 

And the smiling scene goes on. 

Perfect as a blissful dawn. 

Wishes fond as incense rise 

To illumine later skies. 

And, " How calm the bride appears !" 

Through the roses greets my ears. 



io6 TO THE ROSES ON MY BRIDAL VEIL. 

While I see approval dance 
In my father's tender glance. 
I am veiled to others' eyes 
'Neath the bridal mist's disguise; 
But he knows the yearning life 
Of his child who is a wife. 

Bridal veil of snowy lace, 
Now again upon my face, 
Perfect in your roses white 
As upon my wedding night ! 
You may deem me older now, 
And touch lines upon my brow ; 

Catch some rose-threads in my hair 
Colorless as yours and fair; 
Count me not the girl you wed. 
But a woman in her stead. 
Outward, inward life at odds; 
No eye truly reads but God's. 

I am young in heart as then. 
Stronger of my walks with men ; 
Better equal to life's needs 
As my wedding day recedes ; 
Gladly saying doubly now 
O'er and o'er my wedding vow ; 

Trustful, happier than the bride 
Trembling at her lover's side. 
Silken roses, fresh as dew, 
I have kept as well as you ; 
And, the moment's weakness told, 
You and I together hold. 



A WINTER JINGLE. 

How the bells a-tingle, jingle ! 

They are stopping at the gate. 
And 'tis Harry, hitching, coming. 

He shall never know I wait. 

" Is Miss Edna in ?" I hear him. 

"I will ask," the girl replies. 
But the servant finds me reading, 

And I scarcely lift my eyes. 

We are sleighing ; jingle, tingle. 
How the merry clappers ring ! 

While the fleet steed moves as gladly 
As a bird upon the wing. 

Sleighing, — ^jingle, jingle, tingle. 

Is it Harry's voice I hear? 
" Don't you wish," he whispers softlvj 

"It was always sleighing, dear?" 

Possibly my face responded. 
For I had to look, you know, 

Just to see if it was Harry, 
Or an echo of the snow. 



107 



io8 A SEA BAUBLE. 

And whate'er it said or said not, 
I can never, never tell ; 

But I hear the jingle, tingle 
Of a happy wedding bell. 



A SEA BAUBLE. 

Of course you have been to Brighton, 
To breathe the salt sea air ; 

Of course you have been to Brighton, 
The lovely Vanity Fair. 

It was there I lost my sweetheart. 

Oh, Coney Island, why 
Did you grow so close the ocean. 

Where billows blind the eye ? 

My love, a beautiful sunbeam, 

Flitted the beach about. 
I learned her brilliant toilets. 

Followed them in and out. 

The brightest star of the evening, 

Saturn, with belts of gold. 
Mine 1 I should never have lost her. 

But for the sea waves bold. 

Of course, if you've been to Brighton, 
You know the bathing there ; 

The lengthy, inclined gangway 
Down from Vanity Fair. 



A SEA BAUBLE. 

To the saving ropes of Brighton 

I clung that summer day, 
For the novelty of tasting 

My first of ocean spray. 

There were odd and curious creatures, 

A myriad on the tide ; 
I called my graceful sweetheart. 

But only waves replied. 

The mermaid witches of Brighton 

Confused and puzzled me. 
Oh, luckless moment, when I clasped 

Some one and thought it she ! 

"Too rough is the sea, beloved," 

And sweeter words I said ; 
Kissing, with each receding wave. 

The wet hat on her head. 

To the balustrade I led her. 

Along the gangway's side. 
Declaring I'd not trust again 

To ocean my pledged bride. 

Then a half-drowned mermaid passed us, 
With pale face bleached and blue ; 

Salt-dripping and scorn-withering. 
She made a curt adieu. 

It was my then lost sweetheart. 

Disguised in orgie's dress ; 
She proudly walked the gangway up. 

Farewell to loveliness ! 



09 



A SEA BAUBLE. 

Of course, if you've been to Brighton, 

To worship Vanity Fair, 
You've had your disappointments 

And can guess my despair. 

" You've my wife !" an irate bather 

Gasped to my surprise. 
As he took/rom me his sweetheart 

And took me otherwise. 

Of course, if you've been to Brighton. 

You know that I left there 
A sadder, more enlightened man 

Than went to Vanity Fair. 



MEMORIAMS. 



MOTHER! 

APRIL 20, 1883. 

Ye Bluebells that ring out the triumphs of spring ! 
Ye Flame-Breasted Robins that lift a glad wing 1 
Ye Grasses that stretch up the lilacs to meet, 
And dream of the clover asleep at your feet ! 

Oh, hush ! For your sweetness, your music, and bloom 
Seem discordant mockery over the tomb. 
Oh, let me keep silence ! Life's well spring is dry ; 
Its fountain is buried or caught up by sky. 

And this is thy birthday ! The rose at my breast 
Is shrinking with sorrow to be memory's guest. 
And we, we are orphans. No garlands to weave 
For the brown satin hair we smoothed last Spring eve. 

Thy children in Heaven, far fairer than ours 
Are the offerings they bring thee of immortal flowers ; 
All thornless and perfect, the blossoms of joy. 
Thee smiles to receive from thy girls and thy boy. 



2 IN MEMO R I AM. 

But we bow in silence. The Autumn was cold. 
Our buds were wrapped with thee under her fold. 
The Springs may awaken, the Summers roll on, 
And we but remember that thou, dear, art gone. 



IN MEMORIAM. 

BISHOP MATTHEW SIMPSON, D.D., LL.D., WENT TO HIS REWARD 
JUNE l8, 1884. 

The fairest rose that blossoms 

To purify the air, 
To strengthen and to sweeten, 

Cannot escape death's care. 

It fades and leaves its fragrance, 

A sanctifying breath 
Of endless June to human hearts, 

Impenetrable by death. 

The petals fall and scatter 

Upon the earth's broad breast ; 

The soul of grand expansion 
Becomes God's favored guest. 

Ours are the grateful memories 

Of life and gifts sublime, 
And ours a depth of sorrow 

Unreconciled by time. 



ANOTHER. 

'Twas his to bless the labor 

Of regeneration here ; 
To render all the Christ light 

More beautifully clear. 

'Tis ours to touch his mantle, 
As rich and ripe it falls, 

And say, with tear-choked voices. 
The Lord, who gave, recalls. 



ANOTHER. 

Another has lain down life's armor. 
Wed in the year I was wed ; 

Folded her hands skilled and willing ; 
Gone into rest with the dead. 

Another ! 'Tis thus we go over 
Single file, privates in line. 

Numbered by God ; but we knew not. 
Friend, the next number was thine. 

We know not, we see not beyond us. 

Rank in earth's army is naught. 
No trophies we bear from the warfare 

Save the rare jewels of thought. 

We march for raiment and rations, 
Stopping in turn at the gate ; 

While those who stand as we falter 
Cry sadly, hopelessly, "wait !" 



113 



MRS. DR. JOHN C. LORD. 

A LIFE of humane, fine intent 
Receives rest as its complement. 
A woman the world loves, reveres. 
Lays down the garland of her years. 

To us she leaves as dower fair 
The speechless creatures of her care. 
Commended by example grand 
That we protect and understand. 

Her organism, strength, and soul 
Combined to make a perfect whole. 
Her generous, loving works and ways 
Shed over us refulgent rays. 

No narrow boundaries hemmed her in, 
To her all cruelty was sin ; 
And yet her charity complete 
Was as Christ's at the mercy-seat. 

She does not die in losing breath. 
Such lives and memories baffle death. 
The great soul gone to its reward, 
She still is our dear Mrs. Lord. 



May 26, 1885. 
114 



A TRIBUTE. 

SARAH T. LEWIS, DIED FEBRUARY 29, 1884. 

Nearer and nearer we press 
To the gate of shining gold, 

While the rays of blessedness 
Brighten life's darkest fold. 

Our angel has passed within, 

But the gate is left ajar ; 
There is light where she has been 

And Heaven is not afar. 

A myriad memories sweet 
The glorious halo blends ; 

We approach the Master's feet 
By perfect rays He sends. 

We reach our hands to Him 

With thanks, and faith, and praise, 

That our picture cannot dim, 
Of our grandmother's ways. 

A charity pure and rare 

Perfumed her life and soul ; 

A blossoming sweetness fair 
Of patience and self-control. 



"5 



S. M. P. 

Nearer and nearer we press 
To the gate she left ajar ; 

Her smile of peacefulness 
Can never seem lost or far. 

She would turn, dividing her bliss 
With us, did God allow ; 

We are rich in the thought of this, 
Kissing her death-cold brow. 



S. M. P. 



A LIGHT of merriment 
And generous nobility gone out ; 

A loving heart grown still ; 
An active mind which our thoughts twined about 

Withdrawn from earthly will. 

A life completed, 
Strong in its fulness, tender in its ties ; 

A soul uplifted to 
A realm unfathomable to mortal eyes ; 

One precious lost to view. 

And we, thy kindred, weep, 
Although we knew the sorrow blight must fall 

(For suffering heralds death). 
Time ne'er is ripe for parting, and we all 

Mourn thy departed breath. 



WILLIAM H. VANDERBILT. 

As a train in fullest motion 
Holds its breath at unseen signal, 

Nor regains ; 
As a track, refusing pressure, 
Parts, and leaves its pulseless burden 

On the plains, 

So he died, the railroad magnate, 
While the flush of ripest action 

Seemed unspent. 
With his hands upon the lever, 
And his thoughts on locomotion's 

Broad extent. 

Pausing, as a clock at noonday. 
Stopped by some supernal power 

While it beat 
Out the hour, to which we listened 
With a confidence implicit 

On the street. 

Only this — a sudden silence. 
As the motive force controlling 

Lost its sway, 
And the democratic Croesus, 
Dear to friends and world-respected, 

Passed away. 

December 9, 1885. 

11 117 



GENERAL W. S. HANCOCK. 

As a mother to her bosom 

Takes at eventide her child, 
Or the grateful earth the petals 

Of a regal rose she smiled, 
We receive in tender keeping 

Now the casket of our son : 
The immortal jewel lifted. 

Has a fairer setting won. 

With the strife of battle over, 

And eternal peace at hand. 
The General heard the order 

And marched on, at God's command. 
'Tis the empty, empty armor 

That they bring us back to-day, 
As a memory of our soldier. 

Whom they early beck'ed away. 

It is all they have to offer 

To our lingering, last embrace. 
With our best and dearest treasures 

We accord it honored place. 
As a mother to her bosom 

Takes at eventide her son, 
We receive our hero's armor. 

For the battle day is done. 

February 13, 1886. 
118 



HYMNS. 



THY WILL. 

Let me be earnest, patient ; 

Let me be watchful, Lord ! 
Bending my every motion 

Unto Thy best accord. 

Let me be zealous, yielding, 
Blending the firm and meek : 

Crushing the germs of evil. 
While glad of good to speak. 

Let me be strong for action : 
A hardy wayside flower. 

Gathering dew to sprinkle through 
The mid-day's dusty hour. 

Let me be pure, and worthy 
The blessings loaned to me ; 

Generous and wise to scatter 
As seemeth best to Thee. 

Let me be persevering, 

Untiring to distil 
Sweetest wine from every grape ; 

But let me do Thy will ! 



JESUS LOVES THE LAMBS. 

Jesus loves the little children. 
He remembers all the lambs. 
He will gather us together, 
Singing some sweet shepherd psalms. 

Hear Him ! hear Him ! We are near Him. 
Hark ! He says He loves the lambs. 

Jesus keeps the little children 

In His fold and pastures green ; 
Gently leading and instructing ; 
Keeping us and ill between. 

Hear Him ! hear Him ! We are near Him. 
Hark! He says He loves the lambs. 

Jesus blesses little children, 

Suffering us to come to Him. 
In His arms we find protection, 
While all earthly cares grow dim. 

Hear Him ! hear Him! We are near Him. 
Hark ! He says He loves the lambs. 

Jesus saves the little children 

From the blasts of storm and cold ; 
Tenderly the news confiding 
That He has a higher fold. 

Hear Him ! hear Him ! We are near Him. 
Hark ! He says He loves the lambs. 
1 20 



MANY MANSIONS. 

Christ has said that many mansions 

Are His Father's house within. 
He departed to prepare them 

For the travellers cleansed from sin. 
Many mansions, many mansions, 

Clasp we the assurance sweet. 
Wanderings ended, Christ attended, 
We will find a rest complete. 

Although earth is green and pleasant. 

Floral as a camping-ground. 

Full of sunlight, full of starlight ; 

Far above is true rest found. 

Many mansions, many mansions, 

Clasp we the assurance sweet. 
Wanderings ended, Christ attended, 
We will find a rest complete. 

God who lives is omnipresent ; 
Gleams of Him we daily see. 
In Christ's words the freshness lingers 
That outspread on Galilee. 

Many mansions, many mansions, 
Clasp we the assurance sweet. 
Wanderings ended, Christ attended. 
We will find a rest complete. 

II* 121 



WORMS OF THE DUST. 

Worms of the dust are we ; 

Worms of the dust. 
Lord, we would creep to Thee ! 

Blindly we trust. 
Blindly we trust and pray 
That we may find the way 

Trod by the just. 

Worms of the dust designed 
For later wings. 

Lord, we would be refined 

From dross that clings ! 

Humbly Thy feet would near. 

Untouched by thought of fear, 
Or trifling things. 

Worms of the dust, and yet 
But for a time 

Are we by ills beset 

Ere we can climb. 

Creep, climb, or fly to Thee. 

Lord, we would meet Thee free 
From vain regret. 

122 



JESUS CAME. 

I AM COME THAT THEY MIGHT HAVE LIFE, AND THAT THEY 
MIGHT HAVE IT MORE ABUNDANTLY." 

Jesus came ; ah, blest assurance 

That He came for you and me. 
Jesus came with sweet endurance 
To unbind and set us free. 

Came to give us life abundant ; 

Came to give us life divine. 
Came with wondrous loving kindness 
To fulfil a grand design. 

Jesus came, the true, true shepherd, 

Came to take within the fold 
Every sheep that strayed or wandered, 
To protect from wolf and cold. 

Came to give us life abundant ; 
Came to give us life divine. 
Came with wondrous loving kindness 
To fulfil a grand design. 

Jesus came to all believing : 

Came to great protection give. 
Jesus came that we, receiving 
Of His precious care, might live. 
Came to give us life abundant ; 
Came to give us life divine. 
Came with wondrous loving kindness 
To fulfil a grand design. 

123 



CHARITY. 

Though we the tongues of angels know, 
And every language, high and low ; 
The gift of prophecy possess, 
And have both faith and faithfulness. 
We nothing are or e'er can be 
Without the flower of Charity. 

Charity suffers long, is kind ; 
To vaunting envy disinclined : 
Beareth, hopeth, endureth all : 
Faileth not when misfortunes fall. 

We nothing are or e'er can be 
Without the flower of Charity. 

Charity seeketh not her own ; 

Over iniquity maketh moan. 

Faith and Hope belong to the three, 

The greatest of which is Charity. 

We nothing are or e'er can be 
Without the flower of Charity. 



[24 



THE SABBATH MILESTONE. 

Gladly we the Sabbath meet ; 

Prayerfully its dawning greet. 

Earth is richly, richly blest 

Once a week with such a guest. 

Milestone on the heavenly way, 
Blessed, blessed Sabbath-day, 
Guide us onward, lest we stray ! 

Milestone, yes, with figures dim ; 
Blind are we, yet close to Him, 
Trusting, when the journey's done, 
We may have the distance won. 

Milestone on the heavenly way, 
Blessed, blessed Sabbath-day, 
Guide us onward, lest we stray ! 

God, in days or years to be, 
Whiche'er portion pleaseth Thee, 
Let us know Thy milestones well 
That of Christ and glory tell ! 

Milestone on the heavenly way. 
Blessed, blessed Sabbath-day, 
Guide us onward, lest we stray ! 

125 



A BURIAL HYMN. 

One by one we lay them down, 

Loved and true-hearted, 
One by one the angels crown 

Our dear departed. 
One by one our hopes must fade, 

Wake to be blighted. 
One by one our souls in shade 
Be sorrow-plighted. 

Hush, hush, dear bleeding hearts, 

Jesus is here ; 
Hush, hush, dear bleeding hearts, 
Comfort is near. 

One by one, in nature's plan. 

Brief days are given : 
One by one vouchsafed to man 

To climb to Heaven. 
One by one our darlings go ; 
Grieved are we, weeping. 
Even when the souls we know 
Safe in God's keeping. 

Hush, hush, dear bleeding hearts, 

Jesus is here ; 
Hush, hush, dear bleeding hearts. 
Comfort is near. 
126 



THE NEW COMMANDMENT. 

One by one we give them o'er, 

Our precious treasures ; 
Feeling Heaven holds in store 

Our vanished pleasures. 
One by one, dear Lord, to Thee 

Do we consign them, — 
Craving strength more trustingly, 
God, to resign them. 

Hush, hush, dear bleeding hearts, 

Jesus is here ; 
Hush, hush, dear bleeding hearts. 
Comfort is near. 



127 



THE NEW COMMANDMENT. 

'Tis a glorious new commandment 

Jesus left to you and me ; 
Few have caught and few have kept it, 
As He bade us, perfectly. 

Love ye, love ye one another. 

Was the new command He gave ; 
Make mankind your friend and brother, 
Comfort kindly, love, and save. 

We would take the new commandment 

Closer to our hearts to-day. 
Praying that we understand it 
And perform it in Christ's way. 
Love ye, love ye one another, 

Was the new command He gave ; 
Make mankind your friend and brother, 
Comfort kindly, love, and save. 



128 CLOSER, FATHER. 

May this glorious new commandment 

Bud and blossom in our souls ; 
May the fruit it bears be pleasing 
To the Lord who all controls. 

Love ye, love ye one another, 

Was the new command He gave ; 
Make mankind your friend and brother, 
Comfort kindly, love, and save. 



CLOSER, FATHER. 

Earth and earthly lights are fading 

As we near Eternity; 
We are toiling through the labyrinth 

That is never sorrow-free. 
With Thy outstretched hand, dear Father, 

Draw us closer, closer Thee ! 

We revere Thy loving kindness. 

Angels cross Thy golden sea ; 
Loosing thorns that fain would stay us 

From Thy pure futurity. 
They're returning, and we follow; 

Take us, Father, closer Thee ! 

We have known Thy wondrous goodness. 

We have seen Thy charity ; 
We have heard Thy promised blessings, 

Felt their sweet reality. 
We can touch Thy hand, dear Father, 

As it takes us closer Thee. 



DECORATION HYMNS. 



THANKS FOR DECORATION. 

t 

While the brilliant flags of Summer 

Turn their colors to the breeze, 
And the music of the seasons 

Drops from bird throats on the trees, 
We, a free, united nation. 
Garland thanks for decoration. 

While the plains and wilds are royal 

In their panoply of green, 
And the days are books of sunshine 
With a wealth of bloom, between. 
We, a free, united nation, 
Garland thanks for decoration. 

While our souls remembering sorrow, 

As the storms of Winter past, 
Hear the winds of desolation 
Hushed to perfect peace at last. 
We, a free, united nation. 
Garland thanks for decoration. 

12 129 



I30 



BY THE ASHES OF OUR ALTARS. 

With our tribute songs and blossoms 

Resting on the mounds of sod, 
While our fallen heroes, risen. 
Cluster round the throne of God, 
We, a free, united nation. 
Garland thanks for decoration. 



BY THE ASHES OF OUR ALTARS. 

Abraham laid upon the altar 

Isaac, long ago. 
Raised his hand, without a falter. 

Till the Lord said, '^No." 
Backward from Moriah's mountains 

Abram blessings brought. 
Faith has still her unspent fountains 

That are found, when sought. 

Lately we to Freedom offered 

Fairest sacrifice. 
She accepted, what we proffered, 

Liberty's great price. 
Backward from the fallen altars 

We with victory tread. 
But each suffering heart cord falters 

As we count our dead : 

Our own dead, whose graves we yearly 

Garnish fresh with bloom ; 
Our own dead, we love so dearly, 

In the silent tomb. 



WE REMEMBER ABRAM LINCOLN. 131 

Ours and not ours. God uplifted 

From the fire each gem, 
While the ashes downward drifted ; 

Turmoil's requiem. 



WE REMEMBER ABRAM LINCOLN. 

We remember, we remember 
The internal struggle gone. 
And the gloomy, gloomy darkness 
That preceded later dawn. 

We remember Abram Lincoln, 
We remember, we remember. 

We remember, we remember 

All those anxious months and years. 
When the men had days of bloodshed 
And the women nights of tears. 

We remember Abram Lincoln, 
We remember, we remember. 

We remember, we remember 

We've a country sorrow sealed, 
And that through internal struggle 
Was the freedom light revealed. 
We remember Abram Lincoln, 
We remember, we remember. 



132 



IV£ REMEMBER ABRAM LINCOLN. 

We remember, we remember 

All the sad forgiven past. 
It is not what we've forgotten, 
But forgiven, counts at last. 

We remember Abram Lincoln, 
We'remember, we remember. 



FOR CHILDREN. 



THOUGHTFUL BLUE BONNET. 

I WENT into the garden, 

The dew and bloom among, 

And caught the morning-glories 
That from the lattice swung. 

I flung their smiling colors 

In handfuls on the grass. 
And said to wee Blue Bonnet, 

" Don't crush them as you pass !" 

The human morning-glory- 
Paused, with a quaint surprise. 

And questioned, rather stoutly, 

*' Why don't 'oo wait t'em dries?" 

" They can't endure the high sun, 

Wise little Bonnet Blue. 
I'll snow them down in showers 

That you cannot pass through. 

12* 133 



134 



THE PENDULUM. 

"Lift up your feet so dainty, 

And see if you can walk, 
Without harm to a blossom. 

Here to the glory stalk. 

** There's white, and pink, and sky-like. 

You must not step on one. 
Don't want to? Why, I thought you 

Would deem it rarest fun." 

I scatter on Blue Bonnet 

Fresh handfuls in my glee 
Until, in troubled treble. 

Her words float up to me. 

She sobs, '' 'Oo vere naughty ! 

How bees do now, 'oo finks ? 
'Tause 'oo breaked up all 'e cups 

'At holds 'er mornin' drinks." 



THE PENDULUM. 

" Come and go," the pendulum says. 

Steadily even and fast ; 
Marking the present a passing gleam. 

Rocking it into the past. 

** Come and go," the pendulum says; 

Come and go, — and it's gone. 
The present is only a second of time. 

And it is galloping on. 



CLOVER BLOOM. 135 

"• Come and go," the pendulum says, 

Beckoning the future dim. 
All the time that we really own 

Is between the tick and tim. * 

"■ Come and go," the pendulum says, 

Preaching a sermon great ; 
'< Whatever you have to do, go on ! 

And never a moment wait." 



CLOVER BLOOM. 

*' It is coming !" so the leaves say, 
" With its blossoms pink and white. 

It is coming, full of honey. 

When the days are long and bright." 

''It is coming!" so the bees think, 
A.S they hum a hopeful tune. 

"■ It is coming !" shout the children. 
In the rosy lap of June. 

" It is coming !" Glad we'll gather 
All the sweet that it contains. 

We will garner in the summer 
For the winter gloom and rains. 

Bees will hive and keep the honey 
To consume when falls the snow ; 

Children store in heart and memory 
Sweets of clover bloom I know. 



136 THE CLIMBING DUCK. 

Though it is not always summer, 
And we have no constant bloom ; 

Let us garner from the blossoms, 
Have each heart a honey-room. 



THE CLIMBING DUCK. 

''It's just as well, I'm sure," said the duck. 
As she wiped on the grass her bill ; 

''As I'm fond of water, it is my luck 
To live by the meadow and mill." 

She walked around and was quite content 
Till a drake, who had visions ill, 

Because the strength of his webs was spent. 
Quacked, "I'll not be happy until 

" I can reach the top of the apple tree 

And swing with a robin's skill. 
The air is sweeter up there, you see, 

Than here with the daffodil." 

The duck, who had no mind of her own, 
Tossed proudly her topknot and frill. 

Said she, " I can climb that tree alone, 
And, if it's so clever, I will." 

She waddled up, like an ambling stork. 
On a board, a long wooden hill 

The boys had set in the apple fork. 
And stood on a trunk limb, still. 



THE CLIMBING DUCK, 137 

'' Ha !" quacked the drake in a taunting way, 
" Move faster, love ! You'll have a chill, 

Or you'd better come down awhile, I say, 
From that sky-parlor and make your will." 

The duck, ignoring these side remarks, 
Moved on a little, with timid skill. 

Vaguely wondering how robins and larks 
Avoid descents which surely kill. 

A boy, who had watched the duck's essays 

To find her level above the mill. 
Sprang up the tree and said, '' My ways 

Are swifter, duckie, if you hold still." 

He carried the duck to the broad tree-top ; 

Lodged her safe where the robins trill ; 
And hastened down, with a spring and hop, 

To see how she liked the blossom hill. 

She thought the blossoms were sweet, but high ; 

She quacked a whisper, then kept still ; 
She feared her topknot would brush the sky, 

And wished herself in the shining rill. 

At last, with courage, she spread her wings. 

Oiling with care each unused quill. 
"There's much in growing accustomed to things. 

Oh, if my feet had broader sill !" 

She tried to settle and plume for flight \ 
But, alas, could not her wish fulfil ! 

She flopped, and flapped, and fell outright 
Unto the ground, with quacking shrill. 



138 



CHURNING. 

Her crippled pride a lesson learned 
That we, the gazers, may too distil ; 

Prattle and pride should be overturned, 
And wise contentment each bosom fill. 



CHURNING. 



Flipety, flapaty ! to and fro, 
Over and over the dashers go. 
Flipety flap, and drip, drip, drip ! 
The cream is dancing a hop and skip. 

Flipety, flapaty ! flump, flump, flump ! 
Now it falls with a duller thump. 
Flipety flap ! I can scarcely hear ; 
Swollen with conceit, — isn't that queer? 

Flipety, flapaty ! chink, chink, chink ! 
Now it is breaking I really think. 
Flipaty, flapety ! chink, chink, chump ! 
There ! it is gathered into a lump. 

Flipety, flapaty ! chump, chump, chall ! 
A mound of butter the dashers stall. 
Flipety, flapaty ! Labor done ; 
Reward is golden and churning fun. 



POLLY PIPKINS. 

A pigeon's homely, widowed bride 

Was scolding Polly Pipkins. 
A Grosser bird than all beside 

Was our gray Polly Pipkins. 
And yet because by chance she died, 
The children mourn unpacified. 

A pigeon of ungraceful mien 
Was scolding Polly Pipkins; 

Crooked of beak, half feathered, lean, 
Was our queer Polly Pipkins ] 

Her movements each an odd careen ; 

A stranger she to ease serene. 

She ate with our canary bird, 
Poor, scolding Polly Pipkins ! 

Her food with silver spoon was stirred. 
Ungrateful Polly Pipkins, 

She patronizing was, absurd. 

And gave no pleasant chirp or word. 

She'd push our hands from china plate. 

Monopolizing Pipkins. 
And o'er her sweets expostulate, 

Indulged and homely Pipkins. 
Most pompous was her curious gait ; 
Most discontented was her prate. 

139 



I40 A WORD TO BOYS. 

But she is dead. The children cry 
And kiss their Polly Pipkins. 

Wondering why the life should fly 
From their dear Polly Pipkins. 

Her very homeliness they try 

To smooth with love and glorify. 



A WORD TO BOYS. 

Of all the needless, useless things 
Which man presumes to do, 

I think indeed the ugliest one 
Is to tobacco chew. 

It may be he was made to mill ; 

But this continual grind 
Was scarcely Nature's grand intent 

In fashioning mankind. 

If it had been, then, like the kine, 

Some self-sufficient cud 
Had been provided for the want, 

Both innocent and good. 

But, as it is, we all discern 

A most perverted plan. 
The grinding of the weed alone 

Degenerates the man. 



VISITING WITH A KITTEN. 141 

I do abhor it, to be plain, 

And, speaking through the pen, 

I wish to say to eve^y boy 
It don't make gentlemen. 



VISITING WITH A KITTEN. 

I'm visiting my Aunt Pauline, 
And with her lives Aunt Dora. 

The others, of the household, are 
The parrot and Old Nora. 

'Tis fun to visit, I have heard ; 

But so I do not find it. 
It's lonesome here, away from home. 

I thought I should not mind it ! 

My kitten, in a basket, I 

Brought carefully and tender 

To while the time and show my aunts 
What cats the town could render. 

A sweet Maltese it is, you know, 
And used to being petted ; 

But Pretty Poll dislikes it so, 

It's grown quite thin and fretted. 

It has to stay outside the door 
Because she screams so at it ; 

And I must sit upon the porch 
Whene'er I feed or pat it. 
13 



142 



VISITING WITH A KITTEN. 

It rains to-day, it rained all night ; 

I think 'twill rain to-morrow. 
I wish my kitten was at home, 

Away from mud and sorrow ! 

My auntie's porch has painted floor, 

And kittie tracks it over ; 
So broad and brown the marks she makes 

Are, like the four-leaved clover. 

Old Nora frowns, and then she scolds 
To see this need of scrubbing ; 

My Aunt Pauline, upon her knees, 
Is at the footmarks rubbing. 

Aunt Dora raises hands aghast. 
The parrot screeches ** Murder !" 

While aunt's words fall upon the cat 
As if it, not I, heard her. 

I wish the cat had wiped her feet ! 

I wish 'twas Nature's fashion ! 
But still I think it better to 

Leave prints of foot than passion. 

It's nice to be so very clean ; 

My mamma taught me neatness. 
But then I think, when I'm an aunt, 

I'll mix it with home sweetness. 



THE VIOLET'S SONG. 

'Neath the brown earth-quilt of Winter 

And a coverlet of snow, 
We've been sleeping, we've been waiting 

For the horn of Spring to blow. 

March is here, with airy trumpets. 
To awake a slumbering world. 

Up the coverlet is gathered, 

Back the brown earth-quilt is hurled. 

We our hands are stretching sunward. 
And our blossom eyes of blue 

Will soon shine along the pathway 
That is greening, girls, for you. 

We will see your merry faces 
As you romp amid the grass ; 

You will find us softly smiling 
If you look down as you pass. 

May your hearts, like ours, be waking 
With the Spring to sun and joy. 

And a happy, happy summer 
Come to every girl and boy. 

'43 



PUSH ALONG. 

In whatever you are doing, 
Push along ! 

To be cheerful, while pursuing, 

Makes boys strong. 

There are drones enough without you 
In the hive. 

So, have energy about you, — 
Be alive ! 

'Tis the bees that make the honey. 
You must know ; 

Honest, active men the money, 
As they go. 

Then be youth that are worth owning, 
Push along ! 

Have no time for idle groaning. 
Or for wrong. 

You will gain with each endeavor 

As you go, 
And about your path forever 
Roses blow. 
144 



THE LITTLE HUCKSTERS. 

The fitful tinkle of a bell 

Upon the evening air : 
A wagon load of apples halts ; 

Our merry hucksters' care. 

The wagon is a crude affair, 

Constructed by our boys, 
Whose years have been but six and eight, 

To gather trade and joys. 

They are the horses, men, and all. 

The younger, spokesman brave, 
Shouts out, '* We've apples, sour and sweet ; 

Come buy, and money save ! 

*' Ten for a cent ! We've sold a lot. 

One good man bought us out. 
And now we've loaded up again, 

To cart them all about." 

We make our purchase ; kiss the pair. 

*' Say, mamma, may we go 
To the next house and sell a few ? 

The folks are kind we know. 

13* 145 



146 THE LITTLE HUCKSTERS. 

''We just have been to Papa's store: 
That's where they bought them all. 
Please let us go ! We won't be long, 
. Because our load is small." 

Adown the road the tinkling bell 

And chirping voices go. 
I see their forms, and hear the cart, 

From where the roses blow. 

A minute later, all is changed ; 

The tender child of eight 
Comes, full of tears and bitter grief, 

Home from the neighbor's gate. 

The little Bravo tugs the cart 

Until the load upsets ; 
Then loudly calls for comfort, aid 

From the frail child who frets. 

We gather up the broken cart ; 

Replace the scattered freight ; 
Pressing the dear boys to our heart 

To learn their trouble great. 

"The man was cross. He heard the bell. 

But didn't laugh a bit. 
He called ' Go home !' and scolded so, 

And we ain't used to it." 

" The man is old. Perhaps he's deaf," 

We soothingly suggest. 
**That need not make him cross," they sob; 

** Our own house is the best." 



KING PRIDE. 147 

Dear little hucksters ! such is life. 

Defeat quick follows gain ; 
And parents, though their arms reach far, 

Cannot long shield from pain. 

Kind words are better. There you're right, 

And smiles are cheap, we vow. 
The children soon will be the men. 

**Come, pets, it's bedtime now." 



KING PRIDE. 



The peafowl stood on the strawberry bed 
And wide his brilliant feathers spread ; 

For he was as proud as proud could be. 
So proud, indeed, that he could not see 

The scarlet strawberries at his feet. 

Or the meek-eyed fowls that stooped to eat : 

Then he tossed his crested head so high, 
And thought his feathers would sweep the sky. 

Nobody noted the spread so free. 
Or cared a rush for his brilliancy. 

The chickens ate to their full content. 
Then wandered off where shadows went ; 



148 KING PRIDE. 

The birds, the butterflies, and the bees 
Made gay with beauty and song the trees \ 

The geese and ducks, with a medley tune. 
Went down to the brook to take their noon ; 

Each guinea hen shyly sought her nest, 

And called, *' Karack ! Here thirty eggs rest !" 

The cows in the meadow were half asleep ; 
Buttercups laughed at the browsing sheep. 

The robins finished the strawberries red. 
While the peafowl dined on pride instead ; 

For when, at last, on the ground he gazed, 
To find them gone he was quite amazed. 

"Ungrateful people, and rude," quoth he, 
'' Could you not homage my majesty? 

"I filled the world, and I touched the sky. 
That you might gaze with admiring eye." 

A chorus came from the shade and brook, 

" We might have starved while we stopped to look. 

*' As to the strawberries, turtle and toad, 
If we had not, would have found the road. 

" We are not wise, but we all intend 

To be prudent, and not on pride depend." 



THE SKY WOMAN. 

" Mamma, what makes the sky look cross 

Whenever it goes to snow, 
And wind give clouds an angry toss ? 

Tell me, for thou shouldst know." 
*' Because at every fall of snow 
Come clouds, my child, and winds to blow 

** Mamma, that is not what I mean. 

What makes the gray clouds grow 
Sullen and cross in their careen 

Whenever it goes to snow?" 
^'Because, my dear, the flakes of snow, 
Tossing about, disturb them so." 

*' Mamma, I'll tell thee my belief. 

The sky girl's old and slow ; 
She frowns and gets all cross with grief 

Picking the geese for snow: 
Because — it is no wonder though — 
She picks ten thousand for every snow." 



149 



SLEDDING. 

It's more fun riding down the hill 

Than pulling up the sled. 
" I wish, Bob, you would pull it up 

And let me ride," said Ned. 

" 'Twould not be fair," said bright-eyed Bob, 

'•That you should have the fun, 
While I take all the tug and work 

To let you downward run." 

No, Ned; I'm sure it is not fair 

To ride without you earn. 
Each one must pull his sled through life. 

To labor you must learn. 

There's many hill-tops we may reach 

If we pull with our might, 
And many pleasant slopes glide down 

If we can steer aright. 

But, if we wait for other boys 

To pull our sleds and steer. 
We gain no strength, and rides are scarce 

For lazy boys I fear. 
150 



STOP AND THINK. 

While your life is full of motion, 

Stop and think. 
You may see the waves of ocean 

From the brink. 

Thought will often win salvation 

By the way ; 
Light a blinded man or nation 

Back to day. 

It will never long delay you 

If you're right ; 
And from some mis-step may stay you 

Towards the night. 

If you find your temper rising, 

Seek the cause, 
Which will often seem surprising 

As you pause. 

Thought and time improve our vision 

Till we see, 
If we'd tread a path Elysian, 

We must be 

151 



152 STOP AND THINK. 

Energetic, even, tender, 

In our way. 
Stop and think, if we would render 

Deeds that pay. 



THE END. 



